The Sabbatical of Mycroft Holmes
by Rector
Summary: A romance. Summer, Sea, Sand and Smugglers. Mystery and mayhem in darkest Cornwall. A Cate and Mycroft story.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements:**

This is a non-profit _homage_ based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

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**Note:**

This narrative is eighth in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the sequence in chronological order:

**i The Education of Mycroft Holmes**

**ii Cate and Mycroft: The Wedding**

**iii Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree**

**iv Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol**

**v Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis**

**vi The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes**

**vii Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets**

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**The Sabbatical of Mycroft Holmes**

**Chapter One**

_Holly Daze – Exquisitely Snookered – The Dark of the Moon – Safe as Houses – La Ciel Claire – Leaving Home – A Formal Man – The Cornish House._

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"What's a holly daze, mummy?" Julius poked a chunk of ripe avocado and was impressed when his finger went right through the middle. It made eating the slippery stuff that much more simple if he could first impale it. He made a note to try this technique with other things. Jelly might be interesting. "Is there jelly for pudding?"

"_Holly daze_ is when you eat ice-creams all the time," Blythe nodded knowledgeably as she crunched a stick of celery. "And you live in a strange house."

In the process of preparing a green salad to accompany dinner later, Cate smiled. Since the twins had started attending the University crèche each week for the few hours she was lecturing and working with students, they had picked up all sorts of new ideas.

She had been a little reluctant to bring them with her at first, given they were so much younger than the other children, but she needn't have worried. Not quite two years old, and both twins were perfectly able to handle a nursery-level conversation, no matter the content. In fact they were already using language and concepts far in advance of their ages and while it was wonderful to watch their minds unfurl like flower-petals, Cate didn't want them to be too adult too soon. It could make their lives very hard. She wanted them to have a childhood for as long as they could hang onto it.

"Do you mean 'holiday', sweetheart?" she handed Jules a cloth. "Wipe your hands, my love, and yes, there _is_ jelly for pudding if you eat all your salad first."

Pleased at the thought of practicing his new technique, Jules wiped his hands roughly, scanning his plate to ensure nothing stood between him and dessert. "Is it orange jelly?" he wondered hopefully.

Whisking the plate away and giving him a small bowl of orange jelly and a spoon, Cate kissed the top of his head. "Orange jelly for my favourite boy," she smiled, turning to inspect the remains of her daughter's feast.

Far more fastidious than her brother, who tended to treat the ingestion of food as a boots-and-all experience, Blythe ate her food with an air of contemplative refinement, her skill with cutlery well in advance of her twin.

"Who told you about eating ice-cream on holiday and living in a strange house?" Cate adjusted the child's bib. "Does my best girl want some more salad or have you had enough?"

"Finished, mummy," Blythe lifted her hands in the air, though she kept hold of the celery. She like the being-eaten noises it made.

Nibbling a waving hand until her daughter giggled Cate set down another dish of jelly and waited for an answer to the first question, she knew it would be forthcoming; Blythe was as punctilious with her words as was her father. The similarity between the two of them was becoming clearer with every new development. She was not disappointed.

"Derek with the big hair said he wented to holly daze and he got to eat ice-cream every day, _even for breakfast_, an' his mummy and daddy made him sleep in a strange house for a long time," Blythe scooped some jelly with the celery.

"Did Derek tell you anything else about his holiday?" Cate reserved judgement on the breakfast story – Derek's mother was Head of Human Biology and unlikely to wire her child with such a sugar-rush quite so enthusiastically.

"He said he swimmed in the sea and it was full of fishes," Julius frowned as yet another piece of jelly refused to co-operate.

"Jules, eat your jelly with a spoon, please," Cate put the spoon in his hand. "And was there anything else Derek said?" she returned to the granite bench top to flip the lime-marinating Turbot she was going to grill for dinner.

"_Sands cassels_," Blythe sighed. "What's a sands cassels, mummy?"

"You know when you play in the sandbox with the other children and make shapes with the sand?" Cate checked to see the twins had eaten everything. "That's a sandcastle," she said. "You go to the beach to make sandcastles until the waves wash them away."

"What's _waves_, mummy?" Jules lifted two handfuls of jelly and looked at her.

###

He had arrived home just in time to have a goodnight cuddle from the children and offer a quick story about a magic computer which made everyone's problems go away, and it was time for lights-out.

After a day dealing with the exigencies of domestic and international posturing on the matter of asylum-seekers, Mycroft felt drained to the point of enervation and envied the twins' ability to simply close their eyes and sleep. He ambled slowly down to the kitchen where Cate was about to serve dinner. She took one look at his tired face and walked over, hugging him to her as her fingers rubbed between his shoulders.

"Want me to give you a massage later?" she said smiling. "Or are you too exhausted?"

It was a tempting thought: one of Cate's massages usually left him unravelled and on the brink of sleep. And he could use a decent night's sleep after the last few days, _Christ_, the last few _months_. It had been one thing after the other without remit or pause and, loath though he was to admit it, Mycroft Holmes was bone-weary.

Watching the tightness at the corners of his mouth and the less than brilliant sparkle of his eyes, it was painfully obvious to Cate that he was functioning on the last of his reserves. "Why don't we have an early night, darling?" she handed him an opened bottle of white burgundy and nodded at the glassware as she went to serve the food.

Though the meal was delicious, he lacked appetite and Mycroft felt his conversation to be on the dull side of average throughout dinner. It was impossible to hope Cate had missed it.

Nor had she.

"You have been working too hard and for too long," she observed, broodingly. "What would your department do if you were hit by a bus and ended up in a coma for six-months?"

Wondering for a moment if this were a covert warning of some kind, Mycroft lifted a searching and somewhat exasperated gaze to hers.

"I have no idea what might be done as the situation has never before arisen," he replied mildly, tasting his wine. It was good wine but he had no palate for it tonight. He returned the glass to the table virtually untouched, a small frown between his eyes.

Reaching a decision, Cate carefully laid down her silverware, rested her chin on her very deliberately linked fingers, took a deep breath and engaged him with a most specific look.

Mycroft recognised this stance: it usually indicated a battlefront was about to be opened. He watched Cate's face. Any moment now …

"Julius asked me what waves were, this evening," she began. "Another child at the crèche had been on holiday with his parents and had been telling the children all sorts of exotic tales including the requirement that one's holiday be spent in a strange house and of the provision of ice-cream for breakfast."

Mycroft smiled. "For breakfast?"

"I think it would benefit the children to spend time at the seaside this summer," she added. "The fresh air and sunshine will be good for them and they'll learn all sorts of new things as well as have fun playing."

"This summer?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Not a good time, Cate," he started to demur, shaking his head slowly. "There's the NATO summit at the end of the month, and then there's all the ancillary talks which inevitably spring forth from actionable items identified within the summit itself, after which …"

"My love, you have perfectly competent staff," Cate sipped her wine. "Let them earn their pay for a while without you."

"The children are still very young," he said. "Next summer will be fine for them, surely?"

"Next summer, _in addition_ to this summer, would be fine, but not _instead of_," Cate held his gaze. "You're prevaricating and it won't do, I'm afraid, my darling," she sighed. "However, if you truly are determined not to leave London, even for a few weeks, then I shall move to Plan B."

Cate looked directly into his eyes. She smiled.

He knew that smile. It rarely boded well for the recipient.

"And what would Plan B involve?" Mycroft linked his fingers in the mirror-image of hers, his expression equally intent, a strange little curve to his mouth.

"I shall rent a holiday cottage someone on the coast and take the children and Nora away for the summer," she said, lifting her eyebrows. "The University break is almost upon me, and this gives me three months of good solid writing-time before I have to back in London to teach, so I think I'll take the children and Nora and my laptop and spend that time somewhere specifically seaside-ish. I can write while the children play and learn about waves and beaches and the seaside."

"For _three_ months?" Mycroft paused, taken aback; she could not be serious. "You'd take the children away for three _entire_ months?" he sat back in his seat, the light of sudden contest in his eyes. "_And_ Nora?"

"By the sound of everything you just told me, you're going to be far too busy with all these summits and conferences and talks to even notice our absence," Cate looked suspiciously virtuous. "We'd be back before you knew it," she paused, thinking. "You might consider staying at the Diogenes the whole summer and not have to think about cooking or anything," she added. "You could even return to working fourteen-hour days for the interim," she lifted her eyebrows. "Just think how much work you would be able to get done without us there to distract you."

Mycroft looked afflicted. Cate was being altogether unreasonable despite her logic. The thought now of living alone for three _weeks_ would be disagreeable enough, but _three_ _months_? Not have the children to talk with at night and watch play at the weekends? Not have Cate's laughter in his head or her warmth beside him at night? Lifting his gaze back to hers, he saw she was unwavering. There was once a time when living alone in a silent house had been his norm, but then she had come along and changed everything. He sighed. She had him neatly snookered and she knew it.

"What are you _really_ proposing?" he asked, sipping the chilled wine and relaxing suddenly as he saw the humour of the situation. Oddly, the wine seemed to have improved.

Grinning as she saw he seemed disinclined to put up too much of a struggle, Cate leaned forward, her face full of ideas. "I rent a holiday cottage somewhere on the coast and we all, you, me, the children _and_ Nora, spend a month by the sea," she argued her case. "I realise you can't possibly be _incommunicado_ for that length of time, so I will ensure that wherever we go has the appropriate technology in place so that you may video-conference if you absolutely must, but _darling_," Cate reached across the table and took his fingers in hers. "You need a break too."

"Where did you have in mind to stay?" leaning forward as well, Mycroft met her eyes glinting with the sense of victory.

"Not sure, but Cornwall or Devon is usually a good bet for reasonable, beachy weather, and it would be more convenient for you if we rented a house rather than stay in an hotel."

That Cate mentioned Cornwall reminded him. An idea occurred.

"Cornwall, _eh_?" he nodded to himself. "Are you considering anywhere specific, or just somewhere on the coast?"

The tone of his voice had changed, as if he were asking another question but not outright. He was about to make a suggestion, she realised; possibly a counter-suggestion to hers.

"Why do you ask?" Cate's tone was guarded. He was not about to manipulate his way out of the situation, she was resolved.

"I ask, because we have a minor property and some land in Cornwall," he nodded, thinking. "Close to Land's End," he added. "There's an old house and a small, private cove and something of a garden," he said. "We have the mineral-rights on the adjacent land, for the old tin mines, though they've been defunct for decades. I think the Trust managers try to have the house rented out to overseas visitors for the summer through the Cornish Heritage Association."

"We own a property in Cornwall?" Cate sat bolt upright, reaching for her wine. "How did I not know about this?"

"I believe I had mentioned some time ago that we had property in the South-West," he said. "But I may thoughtlessly have neglected to give you details," it was Mycroft's turn to smile. "Would that be suitable for your proposed sabbatical, do you think, my love?" he asked, a single raised eyebrow expressing his growing amusement.

"Is it big enough for us all?" Cate wondered. A lot of these old places were miners' cottages with two bedrooms at most. Camping out was fun, but not with two hyper-curious toddlers, a workaholic-perfectionist husband and a nanny.

"Large enough," Mycroft looked into his memory. "It used to be a Mine-owner's manor; there's several old pitheads in the locale. The house should be more than sufficient for our needs."

"Then the only thing that needs to be settled is when we can go," Cate added a little more wine to his glass as he resumed eating.

Really, he thought; the fish was rather good.

"I genuinely need to be present at the NATO summit," he pressed a napkin to his lips. "But that's in two weeks' time and has an anticipated duration of four days," he sat back, a philosophical note in his voice. "I would also need to ensure the Cornish house is available and appropriately equipped to meet my communication and security requirements, but if you are determined to _force_ me away from my desk …"

"I am entirely determined, my love," Cate smiled.

"Then how does immediately following the summit, say around the first week in July, suit your plans?" Mycroft paused, thinking. "This would give me time to ensure the property is installed with the necessary technology," he blinked, reflectively. He hadn't taken a holiday in ... longer than he cared to remember. _Years_. It might even be enjoyable. There were several historical analyses he had been meaning to read for some while now, even, perhaps, an autobiography or two … to watch the children at play … the likelihood of a bikini-clad wife … His expression grew lighter.

"That suits me perfectly," Cate was already thinking ahead. There was one more week before the semester concluded, but as she had no exams to mark or other tasks to finish with her students, she would be a completely free agent within a few days. She was fairly sure Nora would be happy to come with them, although Cate wanted to give the older woman the opportunity to go and have a holiday away from the Holmes household if she preferred. The twins were too young yet to have any school requirements to meet, and as long as she could prise Mycroft out of Whitehall, she was sure he'd be fine once she got him down to Cornwall.

Cornwall! The last time they'd been down that way was when she and Mycroft had driven to meet her sister just prior to the wedding. She wondered how Neve and the tribe were; she hadn't heard much, except from the odd phone conversation and a series of irregular emails from Lily and Rose at university in Reading. If the house Mycroft had forgotten to tell her about wasn't too far away, she'd have to take the twins to meet their aunt and any of their cousins still at home. It would be good for the two families to establish a connection: Cate didn't want Blythe and Julius growing up with the same emotional distance from family that she'd experienced.

Now all she wanted to know was where exactly was this secretive little west-country hideaway Mycroft had neglected to tell her about? As soon as she had a location, she was going to see what the internet had to say. If the Cornish Heritage people were involved, it was probably going to be some ancient monastery-type place and that would not do whatsoever. Cate wanted a holiday by the beach, with sun and sand and swimming and the occasional ice-cream and all the things that went with a holiday, including, if possible, room-service.

It was now her avowed intention to let the children make sandcastles and play in the water as long as they wanted, and to get her stylish husband out of Savile Row and into a pair of board-shorts.

She tried to imagine Mycroft with a tan. His bare shoulders and arms golden-brown and freckled … his eyes, ocean-blue in a smiling, sun-touched face … warm and relaxed and happy and all _hers_ ... A tightness grew in her stomach as she as she turned to look at him again, a slow grin curving her mouth.

This was going to be fun.

###

They always waited until the dark of the moon, these days. Too many chances of being caught; too many nosey parkers ready to dial 999 the minute they thought something was a bit fishy. But this run should be a doddle: they'd done it several times before, and this place was so far out of the way, there'd be nobody around to see them. And even if they were spotted, what could anyone say? A lorry seen driving down a lane towards the coast. Big deal.

The driver checked swiftly over his shoulder to see that the tarpaulin was still battened tight down over the load; it wouldn't do to have any of the cargo come loose. He hated to think what the consequences might be; the police would be all over it in a flat second. So, drive carefully, but not look as if he were driving carefully. That was the way.

Changing down a gear as he came to a small hill, the vehicle's engine growled with effort, struggling with the uneven track and the heavy load. It left deep ruts in the soft grassy track, ill-designed to cope with more than the occasional crop of riders or coastal-walkers.

There was a flashed light up ahead. _Thank God_; this trip seemed to have taken forever. They would soon have to stop using this particular spot or suspicions would be raised.

Reaching the end of his journey, the driver braked just as another man flashed the torch up and into the cabin, blinding him for a second.

"_Hey!_ Watch it, mate," he grunted. "I need to see what I'm doing, y'know."

"_Yeah_, sorry. Hands a bit nervous. I was sure I heard voices not long ago."

"_Voices_? Not coppers?"

"Nah. Sounded like kids, but still. I don't want anyone turning up here until we're well gone."

"Right. Let's get this over with and get out of here."

It was only a matter of minutes to reverse the lorry around and back it up, right up to the edge. With the flick of a switch and the press of a button, the back of the truck began to tilt upwards, allowing the now-unfastened cargo to slide freely towards the dropping edge of the tray. A rough metallic scraping turned to soft thuds as the first of the containers slid off the end of the increasingly elevated bed. The thuds stopped for a moment, then other sounds, louder sounds, _angrier_, as metal struck stone and earth and, eventually, the noise of things reaching the bottom of a very deep hole. There was more noise as the remaining containers slid free from the bed of the lorry, flying downwards to meet up with the others in the pit. It was done. The lorry was once again free of its terrifying load.

"Time we wuz gone," the driver waited until the man with the torch jumped into the passenger's seat before he engaged a forward gear and pulled away, back through the hush of the night.

###

"And what of the new security protocols?" Mycroft was at the desk in his office, his face thoughtful as he waited for Alex Beaumont, his new and recently-appointed Head of Security, to bring him up-to-date with technological upgrading of the Cornish House. Beaumont, an American, had worked on the house-security details of a number of VIPs in the States, as well as on the security-teams of several high-profile politicians. He had been lured to the UK by the opportunity to spread his wings and review security for some of Britain's less expendable individuals. His foreign birth disadvantaged him slightly in competition for posts within the British security agencies, but Mycroft had directed the preparation of a contract as soon as he'd seen Beaumont's CV. After only one conversation, the refined young ex-US Government employee had shaken Mycroft's hand and the rest, as they say, was history.

Beaumont scanned down a list of details on an iPad. "In addition to the standard surveillance tech, I've had a couple of our engineers install an extended perimeter camera at the main gate and the beach gate, as well as half-a-dozen satellite image-trackers along the stream, which will operate twenty-four-seven. We've improved the back-to-base alarm, and included a new Wi-Fi signal direct to security here; this covers not only the house, but any forcible entry via the doors, windows or any of the gates, as well as the roof – we've installed the appropriate pressure-sensors in the frames and structure where normal use wouldn't trigger them, but which as points of leverage would," he added. "There's also pressure-pads at various in-ground locations."

"And at night?" Mycroft looked pained at Beaumont's 'twenty-four- seven' epithet, but realised one must accept certain sacrifices in the service of one's country. He made a mental note to have one or two people suggest appropriate English alternatives without hurting the man's feelings: Americans were proud of their language, and he had no wish to lose his department such an excellent comptroller of security by offending his sensibilities.

"At night all cameras go infra-red, and as they're already cloud-linked, you can view the feed though any uplink portal such as a smartphone or a web-browser, anywhere you like," he smiled, his straight, white teeth a vivid contrast against dark skin. Brushing a wrinkle down the sleeve of his Brooks Brothers suit, he paused. "Do you want me to look at anything else?" Two months ago, Beaumont would have considered such levels of security excessive for anyone below a Head of State, but threats against British interests were becoming too specific to take any chances and Holmes would have been shielded from risk whether he had requested it or not. Queen Elizabeth's government clearly had plans for Mr Holmes that did not include early retirement, of _any_ description.

"In addition to passive surveillance, I am considering the efficacy of these," Mycroft handed the expert a sheet of paper. It took Alex a moment to realise what he was reading, but then comprehension arrived. His lifted his eyebrows.

"You serious?" he asked, redirecting his gaze. "This is maybe something the Marine Corps might use," he said. "Mind telling me why you think this might be helpful?"

Mycroft crossed his legs and looked thoughtful, tapping his lower lip. "I am mindful of our little Algerian problem," he said. "If nothing else, we might consider this a realistic trial," he added, meeting Beaumont's questioning expression. "We know of the approximate area under investigation. The range of this … _device_ lends itself to the location, and as I will be there to monitor its performance and assess its physical practicality, there is good reason to implement this trial for the sake of data-gathering, if nothing else."

"Next you'll be telling me you've thought about getting your kids microchipped in case they go wandering off and getting into trouble," Beaumont grinned, his smile muting immediately as he saw Mycroft lifted eyebrows.

"I would never consider such treatment appropriate for a child, especially of such tender years," the elder Holmes frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes in consideration. "My _wife_, however …"

###

The ship was more of a boat, really, its profile lying very low to the water. Every sharp line and edge along the gunwales had been wrapped in an odd amalgam of long strips of old rubber and dense latex, painted all over with a matt black rubberised paint, as was the wheelhouse and the superstructure, such as it was. This bizarre, uneven covering absorbed almost all of the current standard detection methods: radar, sonar, infra-red. The entire boat was virtually invisible at night to any form of observation. It was a smuggler's vessel and rarely came out during the day, preferring instead to lie up somewhere discreet. The only thing about this craft that had anything to do with the sunlight was its name.

Which might make one wonder exactly why _La Ciel Claire_, old, rat-infested and creaky as she might seem, was maintained in peak sailing condition. Rough on the surface, yes, but beneath her scarred wooden deck throbbed a pair of extremely powerful D13-Volvo-Pentas, diesel flowing through them smoothly and very quietly, thanks to the excessive amount of sound reduction technology thoughtfully installed by her current owners.

To make room for these engines meant that there wasn't a huge amount of space left over for other things such as cabins or places to sleep, or even basic privacy for the twenty passengers huddled silently on-deck in old blankets, but the trip from St Mary's, the largest of the Scilly islands, wasn't a long voyage by sailing standards. A few hours in the open on a warm night and _The Clear Sky_ would have reached her destination, a secluded cove on the Penwith Peninsular. _Cornwall_.

They had travelled on a similar vessel from Saint-Pol-de-Léon the previous night; a small town just beyond Morlaix on the Normandy coast of France, landing in the dark on a coastal property on the Isles of Scilly and hiding out in an old barn during daylight hours. Then the Captain and his minimal crew met them after sunset at a tiny beach of pebbles, escorting them onto his oddly-clad boat before shoving off and heading swiftly and almost silently towards mainland Britain. For the peddlers of such human cargo, the trip netted multiple thousands of Euros. For the men, cold, hungry and exhausted, it was the chance of a new life. Despite the discomfort of their voyage and the hardship of their seemingly endless journey, there were no complaints.

Nimble, despite its ungainly appearance, _La Ciel Claire_ found her unerring way into a shallow-beached inlet, allowing the gently rounded hull to ground deeply into the giving sand.

"Everybody off, _quickly_," Captain Luc Bisset's harsh whisper had everyone up and moving, dark shadows against a fractionally lighter backdrop of cliffside and sandy shore. "Il y aura _un camion_, there will be_ a truck_ waiting to take you to the nearest city," his voice carried to every ear, despite its low tone. "Do as you have been told and do not stay together or you will be caught and sent back to your country," he hissed. "The British police do not like illegal immigrants," Bisset hammered his words home. "So do not get caught or you will _never_ be able to make it back here again. _Bon chances_," he nodded, pointing the way to a narrow path that snaked up the side of the cliff.

Waiting for a few moments as his First mate stood beside him, Bisset shook his head, shrugging. The illegals' troubles were not his problem now.

"Do you think any of them will make it beyond the weekend?" Yves Joubert, First Mate of _La Ciel Claire_, navigator of illegal harbours and general all-round enforcer, watched as their recent cargo scrambled up the side of the hill in the dark of the night.

"I neither know nor care," Bisset pulled out a thick wad of compressed Euro notes. "Your cut," he said, pressing the pile into Joubert's open hand.

"One day, one of them will inform on us," Joubert, thug though he was, was not without sufficient wisdom to understand the risk he was running. People-smuggling was considered a heinous traffic across Europe. But the rewards to the operators were staggering.

"Nobody will inform on us," Bisset met the other man's eyes in the dark. "What do they know of us? _Nothing_. They don't even know where they have been staying the last three nights and they have only seen us in the dark, _pah_," he shrugged again. "There is nothing they can say that would lose me any sleep."

Joubert wasn't so sure. One of the men who boarded at St Mary's looked vaguely familiar, almost as if he'd been on board _The Clear Sky_ before. It was impossible, of course – who would make the attempt twice? Who among those men could even _afford_ to make all the payments twice? It was an expensive business, exporting yourself, these days. Shaking the idea from his thoughts, Joubert prepared to ready the boat for the return trip to the isles of Scilly. They would berth the boat in a _very_ private little anchorage, and rest for a while before making their next trip the following night. They would then have to return to France, being unable to operate until the next moonless night in July.

As _La Ciel Clair_ backed her way carefully and slowly out of the sheltered inlet, one of her recent passengers paused half-way up the steep slope and turned to watch the vessel depart. Fishing in an inner pocket of his worn and faded jacket, he produced a small, very clever and very expensive camera. It wasn't the sort of camera usually associated with penniless illegal immigrants. It wasn't even the sort associated with the wealthy, legal kind.

After taking a series of shots, the man nodded to himself, replaced the camera in the safety of his coat and turned around to head up the hill. He knew the way this time.

###

It was all becoming too much to handle. He thought he'd be able to deal with the pressure of his family to conform, but it was a horrible joke and he knew it; it simply wasn't in him to do what they all expected. Rubbing a hand over the dampness of his cheek, Tomas Adin took a very deep breath and stood, pulling the rucksack over a shoulder. He had left the note where his mother couldn't help but see it in the morning, although he wouldn't be around to see her reaction. At barely fifteen, the youngest of the Adin clan had had enough and was about to leave home.

Taking one last look around the only real place of privacy he'd ever known, Tomas made up his mind and opened his bedroom window. There was a convenient and very sturdy beech tree. He used it.

###

Everything was set.

Nora, of course, had agreed to accompany the family to the holiday house; the tone of her voice suggesting a mild affront that Cate had even needed to ask.

Mycroft had arranged to have the Bentley off-roader brought up from Deepdene as this was going to be large enough for all the bags and luxurious enough for everything else. He quite fancied the idea of driving himself for a change, advising his usual team of drivers to make the most of his period of absence as he anticipated a significant volume of movement around London upon his return. Cate reminded him that, technically, the car was hers, but she would permit him to drive it down as long as she could drive it back up. After a brief debate, settled only by the flip of a coin, Mycroft agreed to drive down to Taunton, after which Cate could take over. He suspected her of manipulating the toss.

Their luggage carried a selection of clothing for them all, incorporating, after a judicious shopping expedition, a bag of various beachwear and sunscreens for everyone. Everything else was light and casual, although Cate noted with some concern that Mycroft had opted to include two suits.

"You _actually_ think you're going to have an opportunity to wear not one, but _two_ suits at a beach house in Cornwall?" she smiled, amused.

"A Gentleman is never without a suit," Mycroft looked down into a pair of laughing brown eyes, her teasing making him feel fortunate yet again for such affection. Since she had forced his hand into making the best of this unanticipated holiday, he had discovered he was quite looking forward to a hiatus of informality. There were _different_ theatres, however, of informality. "One never knows when circumstance may demand it," he leaned against her, arms folding around her shoulders as he brushed her lips with his own. "I've never made love to you in Cornwall," he whispered, smiling as her heart thudded hard enough to feel in his own chest.

"And you think one of your Savile Row creations will assist your efforts in that area, do you, Mr Holmes?" Cate sniggered as she held herself away from him, enjoying the pleasure in his face.

"I know how much you like getting me out of my suits," he pulled her back, sighing into her hair. "It's worth wearing one for that alone."

"Then perhaps you should bring three," she breathed, sliding her arms around his neck and finding his mouth with her own. His embrace grew tighter.

A squeal of indignant outrage came from the twins' room.

"Blythe," Mycroft relaxed his hold, a rueful expression on his face.

"Blythe," Cate nodded, smiling as she pulled him by the hand towards the sound of disquiet. "Jules is probably sitting on one of her toys; you know how he enjoys irritating her."

"Just like his mother," Mycroft wrapped a long arm around her.

"I do not enjoy irritating you," Cate raised her eyebrows. "I find it only mildly entertaining."

"I love you," Mycroft squeezed her against his side.

###

Nearly six hours after they had left the city, it was near-dark by the time the Bentley turned off the B3306 and onto the Old Foundry Road, more of a track, really, and intermittently paved. Continuing along to the very end, Cate manoeuvred the sizable vehicle along the narrow lane as Mycroft pulled out his Blackberry on which he conducted several functions. Suddenly, from out of the darkening haze ahead, a swathe of light cut through the shadows: they had arrived.

Pulling the car into a hard-tamped circular driveway, Cate grinned through the car windows at the charming sight, even at this late hour.

A dark-granite building, square and solid, with large bay windows, a porch-covered door and ivy crawling up towards the slate-tiled roof. Light blazed from every ground-floor aspect, as well as several downlights at the main gate and from the corners of the roof, ensuring the entire façade of the building was illuminated. Surrounded by a slightly wild-looking garden and trees, she could see little further than the house itself, but there'd be plenty of time for exploring over the next few days.

The twins were sound asleep in the back seat with Nora, making no sound as Cate handed Jules to Mycroft and clasped Blythe to her own shoulder; they would put the children to bed first and see about the bags later.

The warm summer air was strongly perfumed with flowers and the nearness of the sea. Cate drew a deep breath and felt wonderful. And hungry.

"If you can see to the children Miss Cate," Nora fussed with a large cooler bag she'd packed just before they'd left London. "I have a lovely supper for us all in here."  
"There should be supplies laid in for us," Mycroft nodded at the house. "Though a sensible idea not to worry about anything major for dinner tonight, I agree."

Cate didn't care either way. She had brought the children for a summer holiday at the beach, and there would be sandcastles and ice-creams and kite-flying and swimming and anything else she could arrange. She looked around the Cornish house and was delighted with its external ambiance. What would it be like on the inside? As they passed beneath the tiled porch and into the house proper, she watched and waited as Mycroft and Nora stepped carefully through the entrance.

Interestingly, she was not the only one watching.

Or waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_A Man of His Word – Another Six Pounds – Sea Air – Nobody Listens – An Unexpected Meeting – The Watchers – A Plan, Of Course – Persuading Tomas – A Special Contract – Rasselas._

#

#

Cate opened an eye in the unfamiliar room and saw pale early sunlight through the drawn curtains. Everything was quiet and still: no sound of young voices, no clinking of china from the kitchen, nothing. The bed was soft and warm and she felt incredibly lazy, curling into the linen with a soft mumble of pleasure. She was officially on holiday.

"Good morning."

Turning her head, she saw Mycroft sitting on the edge of the bed on his side, leaning back to look at her. "You slept well."

"Wonderfully well, thank you," she murmured drowsily, still in the stratosphere of sleep. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Habit," he smiled "Can't sleep beyond dawn."

This was a serious issue and had to be addressed.

"You're on holiday for an entire month, so you'd better get used to it," Cate pushed up onto her elbows, regarding him through half-closed eyes. "Come back to bed and let me cuddle you to sleep."

"Darling, I'm wide awake," he smiled and shook his head, eyebrows lifting. "I may as well get up and do some …"

"If you say 'work', Mycroft Holmes," she rubbed her face. "I am going to introduce certain bondage techniques into this relationship until you start to relax," she looked enigmatic and lay back in the downy bedding.

"Bondage?" Mycroft's lips twitched, but he stayed where he was.

"Come over here and I'll show you," she smiled decadently. "Besides," she teased. "You have to make good on a particular promise."

Sighing, he rolled himself back beneath the duvet, lying on his side, meeting her gaze. "What promise?" he asked, examining the veil of dark hair across her face, the way her mouth seemed to be laughing even when she was silent. Her eyes were darker than usual in the dim bedroom, although the paleness of the bedding threw the fine curves of her face into delicate emphasis. He thought her beautiful. And desirable.

As if she was reading his mind, Cate laughed softly.

And provocative.

Mycroft leaned over, brushing strands of dark brown silk from her creamy skin, allowing the palm of his right hand to cradle the side of her face as he observed the darkness of her clustered eyelashes and the flecks of green in the brown of her irises. Her lips were pale rose and smiling for him. He felt his abdominal muscles contract and his breath shorten as an infinite craving swept across him.

"What promise?" he asked her again, his voice playful as his thumb moved lightly across her mouth. He watched her eyes widen and her lips part, felt the surge of heat in her skin as her breathing slowed. He closed his eyes as the blood roiled through him, his resistance razed. Every time. She had this effect on him every time.

"What promise?" he repeated, quietly now, leaning forward to rest his mouth on hers, breathing the air she breathed, moving with her.

"Cornwall," she husked, eyes wide, a centimetre from his own; he could see only velvet brown shadows.

"Ah … that promise," his mouth curved against her lips. "And we are, _actually_, in Cornwall," he leaned away to see her light-hearted expression, a hunger burning him down to the soles of his feet.

"We are indeed," her smile was almost audible.

"And I _am_ a man of my word," Mycroft rolled back, pulling her inescapably against his chest, their positions abruptly reversed as his eyes darkened with want. "_Kiss me_," his rough demand was in a gravel-dry voice, unable to wait another second for her passion to match his. "Kiss me for the rest of my life, Catie."

"_Darling_," Cate reached for him as his fingers curled around the nape of her neck, bringing her to him, holding her tight in the shelter of his need and his love.

The second time she awoke, Cate smiled at the sound of gentle snoring.

###

Tomas was really, _really_ hungry. He'd packed sandwiches in his rucksack the previous night, but after hours walking in the dark, he'd been starving; thirsty too. He had a bit of money, but needed to find someplace with proper hot food and maybe a cup of tea, even a can of coke would do. Taking a deep breath, he carried on walking through the early morning light.

He made for Penzance, his plan to get a north-bound train to London. Once he was there, he was sure he could find some casual work that would pay for a bed in an hostel – he just had to get away from home and the West country; there was nothing for him here, not even his family was willing to encourage the future he saw for himself: not an easy one, perhaps, but it was what he wanted, a life he felt impelled to pursue. He felt sorry for the shock he was going to give his mother, but there was no other way. And so, north to London.

But first things first. _Penzance_.

Only about eight miles distant from St. Ives in the daylight across the fields and rough woodland, but he had left in the dark and nobody around here crossed unknown country at night – there were too many deep holes in the ground. He took the long way around and stuck to the roads. Thus it was dawn as he strolled into the outskirts of town. There were plenty of pubs in Market Jew Street yet though his voice was already showing signs of the deeper baritone it would become, he knew people still saw him as a boy. Nor did he have the money or inclination to eat in anything approaching a restaurant, so opted for the anonymity of the railway station café, and stepped through the smudged glass doors hoping there would be something hot and cheap inside.

The next thing, of course, was to buy a train ticket.

Tomas had long ago researched the price of one-way tickets to London and besides the few hundred pounds he had in a savings account, his available liquid cash was exactly that of a cheap meal and a one-way to Paddington. It was only after he'd partly filled the gnawing hole in his belly and gone to purchase his ticket that the bad news hit.

Ticket prices had gone up the two days previously, by nearly ten per cent. The cheapest off-peak ticket was almost sixty pounds. That meant he needed another six pounds.

He did not have another six pounds.

###

Nora was already entrenched in the old stone kitchen when Cate wandered down in her robe. The children – miracle of miracles – were still asleep and she intended to have a nice leisurely cup of coffee before the day's madness began. She began hunting for the wherewithal to make the black wake-up juice.

"Second cupboard over, middle shelf," Nora offered, knowing exactly what Cate was after. "There's also some bits and pieces in the 'fridge for breakfast," she added, "though we need to do a bit of a shop today or we'll be out of everything."

Finding a _cafetière_ and an unopened packet of ground espresso, Cate spooned a generous portion of the aromatic substance into the large glass jug and set the kettle to boil.

"Can't believe the twins are still asleep," she smiled gleefully, enjoying the momentary peace.

"Mr Mycroft too," Nora's tone was amused. "Must be the sea-air," she lifted her eyebrows but kept her attention on the batch of scones she was about to stack in the oven.

"Must be," Cate smiled privately, pouring boiling water onto the coffee and inhaling the wonderful perfume as it floated upwards. She felt light and happy.

"I've made extra, Nora," she said. "Want some?"

"Not for me, thank you," Mrs Compton shook her head as she turned her attention to the croissants she had rising. They were about ready to pop in with the scones and would be lovely and hot for breakfast. "Had me tea before."

"Then I'll have a double-share," Mycroft announced, walking over to Cate and wrapping her in an extravagant hug. "I'm also quite interested in breakfast, Nanny Nora," he admitted brightly. "Are you as organised as always, or do I have to go out and shoot something?"

"Someone got out of the right side of the bed this morning," the older woman managed to restrain her smile, but barely.

"Must be the sea air," his cheerful expression turning to one of inquiry when both women snorted with laughter.

"Clearly I have missed something," he nodded sagely before brightening again. "However I refuse to allow anything to inhibit the extraordinarily good mood in which I find myself," he smiled airily. "What plans do you have for us this fine day, my love?" Taking the mug of hot, scented coffee, he nibbled Cate's neck.

"If I'd known the affect a holiday had on you, I'd have insisted on three of them each year," she grinned, wriggling as he tickled. She turned in his embrace and smiled up at the man she was still getting to know, even now.

"I think we need a shopping trip for fresh things," she said. "Penzance is about twenty minutes away, although Saint Just is only down the road," she nibbled her bottom lip. "I think I'll do a biggish grocery shop in Penzance this morning and then if we need anything, we can pop into one of the local places in the interim," she paused, looking at the both of them. "How does that sound?"

"If Nora cares to accompany you to the shops, I will take the children down to the quay," Mycroft nodded, pleased. "It promises to be a superb day."

If he was going to be this easy to keep happy, Cate envisaged a very pleasant holiday indeed, and even if he wasn't able to maintain such _joi de vivre_ every minute. It was a lovely beginning and boded well for the next few weeks.

"Breakfast will be ready in about twenty minutes if you want to go and dress beforehand," Nora announced. "Though it makes no matter what time anything happens on holiday, really."

"If you can keep your ears open for the children, I think I'll go and grab a fast shower," Cate's smile was for Mycroft.

He smiled back, placing his mug down on the bench top. "I think I shall do the same," he looked distinctly untroubled, allowing his fingers to stroke Cate's hair.

"Away with you both then," Mrs Compton kept her eyes down and her face straight, but inwardly she was glad. How she wished Miss Elinor could have seen her eldest son now; all the promise of his younger years coming to fruition, but balanced by love for a woman his mother would have adored, and by two children who looked at him in wonder.

He was a lucky man.

Nora Compton nodded to herself and turned the croissants in the oven.

###

He had planned to get the earliest train possible, but now he was a few quid short, he'd have to wait until the bank opened at nine before he could liberate additional cash for the ticket. Tomas kicked a stone on the footpath. He wanted to be gone from this place as soon as possible, and every little delay, no matter how trivial, was jarring.

His mother would be up by now, he realised. She might even have gone to wake him and found his bed empty. He felt bad about leaving the way he had, but she wouldn't have let him go otherwise, even though she'd brought all of them up to be independent. Though he felt older, he was still just fifteen.

And that was part of the problem. Nobody took his ideas seriously; nobody listened. The others laughed at him when he told them, in a moment of madness, what he wanted to do. They had laughed and teased and somehow, it was just all too much to keep on having to face. Best to go by himself, in that case, which brought him back to the decision to go to London.

Checking his watch, he saw it was after nine; the bank would be open. He stood slowly, stretching his tightened leg muscles. He headed up the hill towards the bank. It wasn't far.

Just down the road from Tesco's.

###

Mycroft was driving the Bentley, neatly manoeuvring into a tight parking space about fifty-meters from the supermarket. Cate and Nora hopped out, agreeing to meet back at this parking area in one hour. With a brief smile, Mycroft pulled away, pointing the car down towards the docks.

"Got your half of the list?" Cate asked. "Let's each grab a trolley and I'll meet you at the checkout when you're done. Shouldn't take long with the both of us at it."

"Don't forget the sherry," Nora reminded her. "Can't make a proper trifle without it."

Rolling her eyes, Cate reminded herself not to forget the sherry lest the empire crumble.

They had everything on the list plus a few extra treats boxed up and ready to go well before the hour was up, and they sat on a bench in the sun watching people go by. Locals and tourists: it was a busy time of year for such a holiday haven.

A lanky, dark-haired young man stopped, checking his wallet. He was only meters away and Cate knew she knew him … but from where? Keeping her eyes on him, it wasn't until he lifted his head and she saw him in profile that she realised.

"_Tomas?_" she said, loud enough for him to hear.

Swivelling in shock, the boy stared at her as she walked in his direction. "Aunt _Cate_?"

Smiling, pleased to see him, Cate rested a hand on his arm. "Is your mother around?" she asked, looking.

"Nah … mum's not … I'm not with anyone … she's not …" his voice tailed off.

If she had heard a guiltier confession, Cate didn't know when. Something was wrong.

"Tomas?" she asked, searching his expression. "What's going on? Are you in trouble?"

Her nephew shook his head. "There's no trouble," he said, though the tone of his voice was far from convincing. Cate hadn't been a teacher of young adults all these years not to recognise a half-truth when it dangled in front of her.

"Have you had a fight with Neve?" Cate wanted to get to the bottom of this. "Have you done something wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_," Tomas started to look rebellious. "Just don't ask me about it, _alright_?"

She also knew when to back off if she wanted co-operation.

"It's alright, Tomas," she soothed. "I'm only concerned, but you're clearly old enough to know what you're doing and if you don't want to discuss it, I'll respect your decision," she smiled. "Are you going to be in town long or are you passing through?"

Looking at his shoes, the boy made a face, unwilling to tell her anything else, but equally unwilling to lie. "Heading up to London," he muttered. "Going to get a job there."

Now Cate was absolutely sure something bad had happened and was still in the process of happening. Tomas couldn't be sixteen yet, and for him to be thinking of going up to London…

"Just one thing I have to ask," Cate's voice was quiet. "Does your mother know about this?"

His hesitation told her everything even before he shook his head in silent denial. "Nobody knows," he muttered.

"Do you have a place to stay in London?" Cate wanted details. She realised she'd have to make at least one phone-call after this meeting. "Do you have money?"

"Got money, don't know where to stay, but I'll find somewhere," he met her eyes, a fierce heat suddenly in his face. "And nobody's going to stop me from going."

"I certainly wouldn't dream of stopping you," Cate met his angry gaze calmly. "I simply want you to have a safe place to sleep and the money to survive until you find a job," she nodded. "You can stay at our house if you like – we've got plenty of room. I have a spare key I can give you if you come back to the place we're staying. I'll even drive you back to the train, if you want me to."

That made him think. In the course of his investigations, Tomas knew exactly how long his money was likely to last if he had to pay for even the cheapest of beds in a youth hostel. If he could sleep somewhere for free until he worked out what he was doing, it'd mean a whole different set of possibilities.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" he asked, uncertainly.

"Sweetheart, of course," Cate smiled, rubbing his shoulder. "If you're determined on coming to London then of course you have to stay at my house, although you'll be sharing it with two very curious children who may well talk you to death."

A cautious smile on his lips, Tomas's shoulders relaxed fractionally. "What about your husband?" he asked. "Won't he mind?"

"Mycroft will be delighted to have a member of my family at home," she smiled again. "Though he's probably going to be even more curious than the twins."

"Are you really sure?"

Cate's heart went out to him. She had no idea what was going on, though something clearly was not right, especially as he refused to talk about it. If she could get the boy to come home with her and maybe eat something, perhaps stay the night until she'd spoken with Neve, then the picture would be clearer.

"I want you to come home with me now," she said, practically. "You can either have my spare key and I'll drive you back here, or you can stay with us for a while, have a good meal and see how you feel later, how would that be?"

"You swear you'll let me have your key and you'll let me go if I come now?" he demanded.

"I promise, Tomas," Cate slipped her fingers into his hand and squeezed. "Whatever you want to do, just let me help."

The Bentley coasted into view at that moment, which was perfect as far as Cate was concerned.

"Come on," she said. "Come and say hello to Mycroft."

Waiting until her husband parked the car in a vacant space, Cate walked over, pulling the boy with her. Mycroft was stepping down from the driver's seat, his eyes already taking in the young man standing beside her.

"Hello, darling," his smile at Cate was brief. "This is your sister's youngest, I believe? We met last at the wedding."

"Hello, Mr Holmes," Tomas looked awkward. "It's been a while since then."

"It has indeed," a slight frown crossed Mycroft's face, clearing almost instantly. "I see you're coming home with us for lunch?"

With a bewildered expression, Tomas looked between them. There was no way Aunt Cate's husband could know of their discussion.

"If you don't mind?" he said, cautiously.

"Not in the least," Mycroft laid a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Though we're going to have to bundle you in the back with the groceries for the trip home, I'm afraid."

Smiling hesitantly, Tomas shrugged. "I'm used to small spaces," he said offhandedly. "Being the youngest means I always get the last place."

Mycroft's fleeting frown returned. "It won't be for long," he smiled briefly. "Bear with us, young man; all will be well."

Helping them load up the large boot area, they managed to find just space enough to hold his long legs.

"Off we go then," Cate took a deep breath, smiling at the twins who were craning their heads around the child seats trying to see the stranger.

By the time they returned to the old house, the car was filled with chatter from the twins, and especially Blythe who was determined, it seemed, to make absolutely sure they were actually on _holly daze_, especially since no ice-cream had been forthcoming at breakfast.

As soon as she saw Tomas helping Mycroft carry the shopping into the kitchen, Cate grabbed her Galaxy and walked outside as she dialled Neve. What was going on?

###

Several of them had been watching the house for days – all the comings-and-goings were interesting, especially as this place usually seemed deserted most of the time, apart from the holiday-makers. A lot of the time it was empty, which suited them just fine. Nobody around to ask unwanted questions; nobody to be where they ought not to be.

The majority of the watchers were young, but lack of age meant nothing. They were just as sharp as their elders: sharper even. They knew a few things, things the owners of the house might be very interested to know about too. It had been a big adventure staying as close as they could without being spotted by all the men with the cables and the big shiny metal boxes of equipment. The watchers weren't entirely sure what was in the boxes, or what the men were doing with them, but it was very interesting all the same.

And they knew about the lorry that drove down the lane on some of the dark nights, and they knew about the goings-on at the local coves. The watchers knew a lot, but they always liked to know more.

Settling back down in the rough woodland just beyond the boundaries of the garden, the watchers did what they did best.

They found watching the dark-haired woman talk on the phone to be most educational.

###

By the time Cate walked into the kitchen, the shopping had been stacked away, the twins were having an early lunch, their wide, curious eyes never leaving the stranger at the table; her nephew was halfway through one of Nora's massive doorstep sandwiches, and Mycroft was pouring tea.

"Here you are, darling," he handed her a cup and saucer. "How is Neve?"

"You rang _mum_?" Tomas stopped chewing and looked horrified. "You _promised_ …"

"I promised you could stay at our house in London and I promised I'd drive you to the station if that's what you wanted me to do," Cate corrected him. "And I will do that," she paused. "If that's still what you want."

"It is," nodding, Tomas returned awkwardly to his food. "What did mum say?"

"She wanted to be sure you were alright, mainly," Cate sipped her tea. "I'd also like to hear your side of the story," she added. "Neve's explained the situation from her perspective, and yes; she's worried to death about you, by the way, but I think we'd both like to hear how you see things. Do you mind?

"Have some tea, Tomas," Mycroft place a cup beside the boy's hand. "Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise," his voice was curiously gentle; Cate looked sideways at him.

The boy stopped chewing again, staring down at the table. "You'll laugh at me," he sounded unhappy. "Everyone laughs at me."

Sitting beside him, Cate put her hand on his wrist. "Nobody here will laugh at you," she said.

Tomas was tempted, but he'd been mocked and scorned to the point where he was sick of it all. He shook his head. "Rather not," he muttered, shovelling down the last of the roast beef and bread. "Sorry."

Frustrated, Cate looked at Mycroft who blinked slowly, the faintest of smiles on his face.

"Finished eating?" he asked mildly. "Then perhaps you'd accompany me into the garden, there's a headland across the bay you might be able to identify."

"Sure," Tomas avoided Cate's eyes and walked through the kitchen door to the garden. Turning back to her, Mycroft flicked his eyebrows. "Won't be long."

The youngest Adin was standing with his hands in his pockets, staring out over the surrounding cliff tops. "Great view," he said.

"I've not yet had an opportunity to sightsee," Mycroft stood beside him.

"You didn't really want to ask me about the coastline, did you?" Tomas turned to the older man. "I'm not stupid."

Looking out to sea, Mycroft smiled. "I hadn't imagined you were," he said. "You come from intelligent stock," he added, lapsing into silence. The silence stretched.

Feeling a need to fill the space between them, Tomas began speaking. "I'm not being silly about this, you know," he said. "I've got everything planned."

"A plan," Mycroft nodded. "Of course."

"I know what I'm doing," the boy was defensive. "What I want to do with my life."

"And what is that?" Mycroft kept his eyes on the line where sea met sky.

"Everyone in the family is clever with music and arty things. Leo's got his band, and Lily and Rose are doing their university on scholarships and Girard's got his apprenticeship at the pottery, and even Quinn is having her photographs exhibited, but I can't do any of that stuff; it doesn't interest me, not any of it. _I_ …" he paused, looking for the words. "I have to do what I want to do without my family always having a go at me," he mumbled, utterly miserable. "I can't handle it any more, Uncle Mycroft."

_Uncle Mycroft_. The weight of responsibility made him smile.

"My younger brother was rather keen on becoming a pirate, in his youth," Mycroft looked out to sea and across the horizon of years. "And I harboured a brief regard for the Diplomatic Service," he smiled. "In some ways we have both succeeded in our ambitions," he paused, turning back to his visitor. "What do you want, Tomas? Why do they badger you, my boy?" he asked quietly, wondering what might be so dreadful that Neve's unruly, yet magnificently liberal brood would torment one of their own to the point of flight. What role did Tomas seek for his future that might be so considered so contemptible? Stripper? Taxidermist? _Priest_? He turned, staring down at the very young man beside him.

Mycroft's soft voice was amazingly persuasive, almost hypnotic, and his dark blue eyes seemed to see everything. Despite his determination to remain silent on the matter, the boy found himself relaxing.

"I want to be an Accountant," he whispered. "I really want it, but everyone thinks I'm going through a phase."

_Of all things_, Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily. _Of all things_.

"And what draws you to that most orderly of professions?" he asked thoughtfully, observing Cate's nephew was nervous for the merest hint of mockery. "It's highly competitive and a somewhat ruthless occupation, especially in London."

Tomas turned to face him, his young face bright. "But I'm _really_ very good with numbers and stuff," he smiled for the first time with genuine animation, Mycroft noted. "I know it sounds mad, but I close my eyes and I can see lines of numbers and I can add them up and move them around and do all sorts of weird things with them in my _head_," he paused, a shy grin creeping over his features. "I'm really _clever_ with numbers, Uncle Mycroft," he shrugged and looked down at his shoe. "But the others just laugh at me and call me a geek."

"And you believe accountancy will offer you an appropriate outlet for such a singular characteristic?" It was clear by his tone that Mycroft did not entirely share such a belief.

"Are you going to tell me I'm not good enough to be an Accountant, now?" Tomas' voice was resigned and sad.

"Not at all, my young nephew-in-law," Mycroft laid a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Quite possibly the exact opposite." Pulling out his Blackberry. He opened an application and pressed a few keys.

"What are these and what are the next two numbers in the sequence?" he asked, curious to see how well young Tomas was acquainted with such things.

Cate's nephew snorted derisively. "That's easy," he scoffed. "7877… 7879 ... 7883, all primes, and the next two in the sequence are 7901 and 7907."

"And what of these?" Mycroft handed him a second sequence.

"Square roots," Tomas didn't even blink.

"And this?"

Peering at the small screen, Tomas frowned. "Looks like a partial differential equation," he frowned even more. "But Accountants don't use those," he said, looking up at his aunt's husband.

Mycroft restored his phone to an inner pocket of his jacket.

"No more they do," he said, pursing his lips. "Tell me, young Tomas," he said casually. "What do you know of the place of cryptanalysis in counter-espionage?"

"Counter-espionage?" the boy was confused. "Why would I know anything about that stuff?"

Mycroft smiled the kind of smile that would have Anthea contacting either the SAS, a purveyor of fine liquors, or a surgeon. He slid a long arm around the boy's shoulders, ushering him to the pathway.

"Have you heard, Tomas, of a small, London-based organisation that goes by the sobriquet of _MI5_..?"

###

Watching through the nearest window, Cate smiled as she saw Mycroft work his magic. While she couldn't hear what was said, she could see the two of them talking freely, which meant Tomas was spilling the beans in a big way. It was a relief. When Cate had called, Neve had been terribly upset on the phone and though she calmed after hearing from her sister, the idea that her youngest had run away from home had Neve on the edge of panic.

"Trust me," Cate said. "I'll look after him."

"I know you will," Neve sounded terrible. "Heads will roll," she had muttered.

Making a face, Cate didn't fancy being one of the Adin gang this night.

Pulling out her Galaxy, she rang Neve back, explaining that Tomas was at least talking to someone.

"Let him stay with us for a few days," she said. "Perhaps he simply needs a little time to get a different perspective on things, and by the looks of it, I think Mycroft is keen to help."

"I blame myself," her sister sounded wretched. "I chose not to have a father around for any of them, and now look what's happened."

"_Idiot_," Cate smiled. "You've raised a marvellous bunch of offspring, and it's a credit to you that only one of them has had a little meltdown," she added. "Believe me, I see bad things all the time at the university, and Tomas' situation is comparatively nothing to worry about. I suspect Mycroft will come up with a plan as well – my husband has a way of convincing people," she said. "Don't worry, Neve, everything will be fine."

"You promise to tell me what happens?" her sister sounded a little less frantic.

"_Promise_," Cate smiled. "I'll see if I can get Tomas to ring you himself," she said. "It'll start getting things back to normal, perhaps."

"That would be wonderful," Neve took a deep breath. "And now I'm going to get medieval on my childrens' fundaments," she said tersely.

Cate laughed. "Stuff happens," she said. "Try your meditation."

"Meditation be damned," Neve sounded on the edge of cross, which meant she was working herself up into a proper temper. "But if he can stay with you for a little while until he can think a little straighter ..?"

"It'll be a pleasure," Cate smiled. "Leave him to me."

Mycroft and Tomas were still outside, and Cate stood watching them through the windows.

"Who is that, mummy?" Julius licked the palm of a hand clean of butter. Her son had a deeply haptic relationship with food, Cate realised. He might end up being a food critic.

"That person is called Tomas," she reached for a paper towel and wiped Jules free of mess. "He is your cousin."

"What's _cousin_, mummy?" Blythe was immediately curious.

Cate sat and looked at her daughter. "You are Jules' sister," she said. "And mummy has a sister, too."

"Mummy have a sister?" Blythe's eyes went wide, as she looked around as if she expected someone to pop out of the nearest cupboard.

"Mummy has a sister called _Neve_," she said, knowing the information was going in one ear and out the other, but still. "Mummy's sister has lots of boys and girls like Jules and Blythe," she added, " and that person," she pointed out through the window to where Mycroft and Tomas still conversed, "is mummy's sister's little boy," she finished. "His name is _Tomas_," she said. "Can you say 'Tomas'?"

"_Tomass_," Blythe hissed the sibilants. "Tomasssss …"

"That's my clever girl," Cate dropped a kiss on Blythe's head. "You have to be nice to Tomas because he's very sad and mummy and daddy are going to try and make him feel better."

"Are you going to give Tomass pink medicine?" Jules was curious now. "Pink medicine made my tummy feel better."

"We'll see, my darling boy," Cate smiled. "Now who wants a nap before we explore the garden later?"

"Don't want a nap," Blythe said, a long yawn stretching her little face. "Not sleepy."

"Then you can just lie down for a little while and not sleep," Nora picked up Julius and rested him on her hip, as they both looked at Cate.

She nodded. Actually, she wouldn't mind a little snooze herself.

"Mummy's going to have a sleep," she announced. "Who wants to have a nap with me in the big bed?"

Torn between the idea of not napping and the special chance to sleep in the Big Bed, the twins eventually gave in, allowing themselves to be carried into the master bedroom.

"Tell Mycroft we should keep Tomas with us for a while," she said to Nora as the twins snuggled down under the duvet, giggling. "Which means we may have to go and do another shop before the end of the day," she smiled.

"I know how young men like their food," Nora nodded, remembering. "Leave it to me, Miss Cate," she said. "I'll not let the boy go hungry."

Rolling herself along one side of the bed and curling around the twins, Cate laid an arm over them both. "Mummy wants to have a snooze now," she said. "Be good children and go to sleep."

When Mycroft walked in just over ten minutes later, all three of them were asleep with Cate's arm curved gently around both twins. He smiled. Tomas was back in the kitchen with Nora who seemed determined to fill the visitor's stomach if it took her the rest of the day to do so. Tomas did not appear at all adverse to the idea. All that was needed now was convince the boy to give up the idea of London for a little while and if Nora forced him to eat his own bodyweight in carbohydrates, that might just do the job. If not, there would have to be a little more persuasion.

As he smoothed the duvet over his sleeping family. Mycroft smiled faintly. He was rather adept at persuasion.

###

There had been an unexpected offer of a contract. Normally, Bisset would not consider making a run until the night sky was absent of moonlight, but this new deal had been made on the proviso that delivery was within the next week: not yet the dark of the moon.

Normally, he'd have said no and gone on his way.

Normally, the money a contract brought in was good enough.

_Normally_.

But this offer wasn't normal by any definition: it wasn't going to be ordinary refugees he was to bring across the Channel.

Bisset paused, deep in consideration. The contract was for a _very_ large sum of money, more than he might make in any half-dozen of his usual trips. It might be foolish to do it, but it would be mad to refuse.

Luc Bisset was many things, but he wasn't insane.

###

The sun was casting shadows in an afternoon direction when Cate came back downstairs. She'd awoken before the children, and decided to have a quick look around the rest of the house.

It was very old; at least two-hundred years and possibly more. The height of the ceilings was idiosyncratic and there was an unevenness in the floor along the main hallway. Most of the stones at the threshold of each door were worn with the passage of many feet. The exposed beams in the ceilings were darkly massive oak, with deep, deep windowsills downstairs and smaller, diamond-paned windows in the upper rooms. There was a small, modern ensuite in each of the two larger bedrooms, and an enormous family bathroom holding court towards the back of the house, between three medium-sized bedrooms. The two staircases were relatively tiny affairs, twisting around the shape of the house as if they had grown there instead of being made to fit. There was something organic about the whole place. It was very pleasing and old-world, with eccentric-shaped rooms at different levels. There was even the smell of warm old cottage about the place, with the perfume of summer flowers everywhere and the gentle creaking of the solid oak doors hanging in their ancient frames. Cate was delighted and had already made up her mind to come back next summer if at all possible.

Walking into one of the rooms downstairs, a pair of long arms slipped around her shoulders from behind, as Mycroft's voice murmured in her ear. "Finally awake?" he was smiling.

"I'm in holiday mode," she leaned back against him. "How's Tomas?"

"He's going to be fine," Mycroft pressed his lips to her neck. "He thinks he wants to be an Accountant."

"He always was good at Math," she remembered Neve saying, she paused, turning in his arms. "Does he really want to go into accounting?"

"No," Mycroft smiled again, "he does not, although he believes so at the moment since he lacks a more appropriate alternative."

"And you're going to give him that alternative, aren't you?" Cate lifted her eyebrows. She knew that tone of his voice. He was up to something. "He's only a boy," she leaned against the warmth of his chest. "Be kind."

"It's not kindness Tomas needs, but clarity," Mycroft rested his chin on the top of her head. "He needs to know what he has and what he can do with it," he said. "And in that, I can help."

"You're quite a nice man sometimes, you know," Cate smiled against the weave of his linen shirt.

"Then the nice man has a little surprise for you," Mycroft's voice had an edge of intrigue. "Come with me," he said taking her hand and drawing her into a room at the back of the house.

It looked like a small parlour that had been turned into something of a library, although the changes had been made a very long time ago; possibly not long after the house had been built. There was a single large window at the far end of the room, looking out into a back-garden filled with exuberantly perfumed and rather blousy roses. Their sweetness invaded every space in the house.

The room itself was as odd in shape as most of its brethren, with a couple of large sofas taking up much of the central floor-space, either side of a low table. There were elegant table-lamps at both ends of each sofa. But that wasn't what was interesting, Cate realised.

The entire room had been entirely covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, even above the door and window. There were books everywhere, most of which were ancient texts; their musty fragrance testament to their longevity.

It was a fabulous room.

"I can write in here," she nodded. "This is where I'll work."

"Thought you were in holiday mode," Mycroft teased.

"Writing doesn't feel like working," Cate poked her tongue at him. "It's fun."

"I'll bring a table in for you," Mycroft looked around. "But first," he raised his brows. "The surprise. Wait here a moment, my love."

Thinking that the book room had been the surprise in itself, Cate looked at him, mystified as he stepped out of the room, only to return a few moments later with a more relaxed-looking Tomas.

"Tell me, nephew-by-marriage," Mycroft folded his arms and leaned back against the doorframe. "What is wrong with this room?"

_Wrong_? Cate found herself looking around. The window, the shelves, the ceiling. Something was wrong?

Tomas looked as puzzled as she felt. He screwed up his face. "Give me a hint?"

With a lofty smile, Mycroft nodded at the wall at the back on the left, standing at right-angles to the window. All eyes swung to the small section of wall, about eight feet long which stood proud into the room by eighteen-inches.

Cate was still baffled: The wall was clad in heavy shelving and old books; the end of the bookshelf was the reason for the odd abutment. She looked first at Mycroft whose expression was carefully nondescript, then to Tomas who was looking at the angles of the room. She shook her head at the cliché. Any minute now and there would be a secret passage.

Frowning, he stepped out through the door, then back in, then out again. He returned immediately, walking up to the shelves and scowling at them.

"This is wrong," he said, his face clearing. "The dimensions are wrong."

"Indeed," Mycroft joined the boy in staring at the section of shelving as Cate wriggled in between them, holding Mycroft's arm with one hand, resting the other hand on her nephew's back.

"I have no idea what you two are talking about," she said. "But what am I looking for?"

"Anything that looks odd, my love," Mycroft slid his arm around her waist as his eyes scanned the shelves, the frame, the books … anything that stood out.

Cate scrutinised the books on the shelves. Mostly dusty old relics of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century political expositions; a number of historical essays and tracts and a few gloomy-looking monologues on strip-farming. Judging by the levels of dust, not one of the books had been taken from the shelves in the last fifty years.

Then she noticed.

"You mean like this?" she asked pointing at a slender volume towards one end of a high shelf. _Rasselas_ by Samuel Johnson: a freethinking stranger among the fusty volumes.

"Exactly like that, darling." Mycroft's voice was warm as he lifted his fingers to the text, attempting to draw it from its peers.

It seemed stuck.

Mycroft smiled. Placing a little extra pressure on the top of the spine, he pulled the book sharply towards him.

It tipped, _clicked_ and stopped. There was a muffled _crack_ and the floor shuddered as the section of shelves moved and dust billowed everywhere.

Waving through the air in front of her face, Cate stared at the wall of shelves.

At the place where the shelves had been.

They had swung partly away from the stone behind, revealing a dark and cobwebby opening.

The Cornish House had a secret passage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_The Secret Passage – Swimming in La Manche – An Adverse Reaction – A Flying Visit – A Strange State of Mind – Ready to Sail – Something is Very Wrong._

#

#

A salt-laden breeze wafted out of the opened entrance suggesting that somewhere along the way, the passage met the shore.

"Did you know that was there?" Tomas kept his eyes firmly on a swag of ancient cobweb as it ebbed and flowed in the current of air.

"No," Mycroft pushed the unlatched shelving more securely to the side, ensuring it wasn't going to slide back. "But I'm not terribly surprised by its existence," he said, scanning the entire framework of the entrance. "Many owners of these larger coastal houses were in league with smugglers, and I believe this passage will lead us down to a harbour of some kind."

"But how did you even know to look for it?" Cate was itching to get a torch and follow the passage to wherever it went. "Did someone tell you there might be a passage?"

"No," Mycroft rubbed his nose and looked fractionally sheepish. "I wondered if there might be; discovered it the same Tomas did, by considering the angles and dimensions of the room. Well done, that man."

A smile curled his mouth as the boy enjoyed the praise. He didn't get much of it at home, apart from his mum, but she praised everyone. It felt good to have it from someone like Mycroft.

"Can we have a look inside?" he asked hopefully, meeting his uncle's steady blue gaze.

Mycroft considered. Tomas was technically a minor, but was already beginning to put on his adult height; his voice already starting to deepen and his current situation demonstrating an adult's desire for independence. To forbid the adventure would be cruel. He stared down into a pair of eyes that reminded him uncannily of Cate. Maintaining a mostly straight face, he looked across at her.

"I'll leave that decision to your aunt," he was carefully neutral. "Your mother might prefer you to remain above-ground."

"_Please_, Aunt Cate," Tomas turned to her, putting his hands together in mock-prayer, realising, for the first time that he was now the same height as she. "_Please_," he groaned. "I never have the chance to do anything fun at home. _Please_, Aunty Cat?"

Catching the brief twist of amusement on Mycroft's lips, Cate realised there was no possible way she could deny the appeal.

"On two conditions," she folded her arms. "If you go in there, you do everything you're told to do, _and_ you agree to stay the night here with us," she said. "I have no desire to drive around Cornwall in the dark just to give you time to explore secret tunnels," she added. "Either, but not both. Your choice."

Tomas considered. He was really keen to get to London, especially now he had somewhere safe to stay and knew he wouldn't be all alone. On the other hand … secret passages didn't come along every day …

"Would you be willing to take me to the station tomorrow sometime?" he asked, hopefully.

"If you want me to take you to the station tomorrow, I will do so," Cate nodded. "Now come with me and hunt for some torches while I ask Nora to keep an eye on the twins."

Mycroft smiled. Getting the boy to stay overnight meant Cate had cleverly extended the window of persuasion. If they could just keep Tomas with them for a few days, he was sure any intention to go to London could be deflected, or at least postponed. He had no wish to lose his young relative's particular skills to the general job market: there were some very specific people he wanted Neve's son to meet.

They were back within two minutes, and Cate handed him a large square torch liberated from the Bentley. "This is probably going to be the brightest we have," she said. "And since I assume you're going to claim the lead, you'd better have the best view," she said pragmatically.

"Sherlock would have adored this," the elder Holmes observed with a faraway smile. "I must remember to tell him about it in exquisite detail."

Lifting her eyebrows, Cate turned to her nephew. "If you think your brothers are ever going to stop teasing you, you're going to be very disappointed," she said, indicating Mycroft's faintly self-satisfied expression. "Exhibit A."

"What, never?" Tomas looked uncertain.

Cate nudged her husband. "How _old_ are you?"

"Tomas, my boy," Mycroft met his nephew's eyes with a philosophical look. "Never marry if you seek a peaceful life," he smiled at Cate's indignant squeak. "When we get inside," he continued, "I want you to stay behind me and walk only where it is clearly safe to do so." Lifting an eyebrow, he looked between the two of them. "Shall we?"

Almost vibrating with excitement, Tomas took the torch Cate handed him, flashing the light all around the entrance as he stepped though, shadowing Mycroft's footsteps to the inch.

Making sure there was a heavy old book wedged beneath the displaced shelving, Cate followed.

As he stepped through the rough opening, the temperature dropped immediately. There was a sensation of dampness and the salt-smell grew even stronger, although there was also another smell, Mycroft noted; vaguely metallic and disagreeable.

Immediately inside the doorway was a smallish level area, about ten feet square, mostly level and paved with smooth stone slabs. To the right there was a rock face with an old iron counterweight on a short rusty chain, itself connected to the door-opening mechanism within the shelves.

To the left appeared to be a relatively level stone corridor, its entirety difficult to see due to the complete darkness; a smell of the sea coming from out of the shadows. Flicking on the torch, Mycroft explored the cold air ahead of him. It was pitch black, but fortunately the spiders seemed to have avoided this part of the tunnel and there were no cobwebs to impede his movement. Light from the torch picked up old iron sconces in the wall at points where once flaming brands would have best illuminated the passage.

Walking carefully along the dry stone passage, he noted the flickering beams of Tomas and Cate following behind. His torch showed a stone wall up ahead and the edge of a stairway leading down. There was an echo of their footsteps as they moved cautiously along the narrow passage.

"Steps," he announced, pointing the light downward his feet following immediately behind. The walls here turned from smoothly masoned stone to roughly-hewn rock, with some form of grey algae blooming in the light of the torches. The air was even fresher now, but still there was an odd smell underlying that of the beach.

Swinging the strong beam of the torch up the wall to his right, Mycroft noted a line of lighter stone moving sinuously along the excavated rock face. Bordered by several inches of what seemed to be a curiously orange-yellow chalk, the central core of the snaking stripe was a whitish-grey ore, crumbly in parts and shiny in others. It was a seam of tin.

"This was Cornwall's wealth in the sixteenth-and seventeenth-centuries," he said, his eyes tracking the seam down the wall. There was a shiny section of rock within reach of his hand. He rubbed his fingers along it, feeling a thick, greasy sensation against his skin. Bringing his fingertips to his nose he sniffed: the same unpleasant metallic-chemical smell was running right through the rock itself. Perhaps this was what raw tin-ore smelled like, although there was an odour that reminded him of something else; he'd summon the memory later, but right now, there were other considerations. Rubbing his fingers to rid them of the oily residue, he carried on down the steps.

The steps stopped at another and much wider area, roughly oblong in shape and about twenty feet in length and two-thirds as wide. Waiting until Tomas and Cate were beside him, Mycroft took his time exploring this larger space.

Clearly it had been a room where time had been spent waiting. There was a crude table and chairs over against the far wall, with what looked like old leather coats or blankets hanging from pegs hammered into the wall. Cracked and yellowing candles stood on the table, permanently stuck in a heavy pool of old wax.

"If we could light them, we'd better see the place this used to be," Mycroft shone his torch up and down the wall, curious to see the exact dimension of this unexpected addition to the Cornish house.

Extracting a box of matches from her jeans pocket, Cate shook them, smugly. "Used to be in the scouts, remember?" she said, lighting all of the candle-stubs cemented so heavily to the table. It took several moments for the dried wicks to catch, but eventually, a glow of yellow light cast around the space.

To the far right of the room, there were the stone steps leading back up to the library in the house. The space they were in now had a decent height and was sufficiently airy that the spiders had been unsuccessful here too, although the stone slabs were gritty underfoot with the dust and detritus of untold years. Old wooden crates and boxes were partly stacked, partly heaped in various piles around the edges of the room.

The table and chairs were placed well over towards the far side of the space, allowing free-passage towards a second exit at the other end of the room; another stone stairway leading downwards.

As they turned to go through the lower exit, Mycroft pulled up short.

There was large knife, almost a machete, thrust hard into a solid wooden post. At eye-level, it was impossible to miss, since the knife's wooden handle protruded ominously into the passageway. Anyone going in either direction would have to pass it.

"A warning or a promise?" Cate asked, wondering, playing her torch over the fearsome-looking thing.

"Does it have blood on it?" Tomas got as close as possible, shining his light over the dull and rusted blade.

"Gruesome infant," Cate patted him on the shoulder as she smiled across at Mycroft.

"I suspect both of ours will be equally macabre," his expression was benign.

"That would definitely be a thing from your side of the family then, not mine," Cate raised her eyebrows. "The Adins are not the macabre type, whereas the Holmes' probably have the word engraved on their hearts."

"Firstly," Mycroft nodded at the youngest Adin currently scraping the blade with his torch to see if any blood-like materials resulted. "_Macabre?_ Q.E.D.," he smiled. "And secondly, the only word engraved on my heart is your name."

Cate brought his hand to her cheek. "Macabre _and_ romantic," she grinned, and then frowned, holding his fingers away. "What is that awful smell?"

"Something on the wall," Mycroft extracted a handkerchief and attempted to wipe the sticky deposit away.

"Shall we continue the expedition?" he pointed his torch forward to the top of the next stairway.

More stone steps led downwards again, the scent of the sea distinct and pungent now, although it was still utterly dark. Cate knew they had to be making their way down towards the shore, somewhere, but where would they emerge?

This part of the stairway was considerably longer than the first one and as several of the steps had sunk or cracked, they were cautious as they stepped down.

Eventually, Mycroft's torch illuminated what seemed to be a dead-end, right in front of them.

All three played their torches over the obstacle; an apparent landslide of rocks and earth blocking the entire passage.

"Oh, _no_," Tomas looked desperate. "This can't be the end of the tunnel, Uncle Mycroft? There has to be a way around this. Can we unblock it?"

"One moment," Mycroft stepped close to the blockage, his fingertips brushing over the surface. He felt … not rock. _Strange_.

"How clever," his words were quietly appreciative, as he pushed his hand further forward … and it disappeared.

"That doesn't look terribly safe, darling," Cate wondered what he was doing shoving his entire hand into a pile of fallen rock.

Mycroft turned back to face them both, a light smile on his lips. "The architect of this little blockade was an expert in the art of concealment," he nodded. "_See_."

Lifting his invisible hand, there was a slight but definite movement beneath the surface of the fallen rock, as if he were lifting it from below.

But that wasn't possible, Cate realised. Nobody could lift that kind of weight with a flex of the wrist: there was some mystery here. She stood beside her husband and reached out to touch the same place he had.

Instead of cold, rough rock under her fingertips, she felt something hard and dry, but much lighter. It felt like …

"_Canvas?"_ she said looking up at Mycroft. "This is _fake?_"

Nodding, he moved to the side, feeling for a handle and pulled at the rigid material which parted, grudgingly in his insistent hands. Behind the several layers of artfully arranged _trompe l'oile_, he felt something colder and harder; something much less organic.

It was an old iron gate, stretching from the floor right the way up to the curved roof of the tunnel, complete with a corroded padlock so large and ungainly. It had to have been hand-made. But no key, even if one might be found to fit, would ever open this specimen again: it was rusted to a solid mass.

"Hand me one of those stones, would you?" Mycroft pointed Tomas toward a few of the real things at the foot of the fake landslide.

Juggling the substantial lump of rock in his hand until he found a good grip, Mycroft dashed it hard against the old lock at the point where the locking-bolt connected to the main body of the device. As the mechanism crumbled into red dust, Mycroft inspected the centre of his hand. The sharp edge of the rock had left several small cuts. There were several spots of blood.

"With luck, we may be able to continue our explorations," he looked pleased, taking out his handkerchief again, pressing it against his palm. Pulling the dried and withered canvas carefully to one side, he tested the gate itself. Although he was able to knock the closing bolt free with the rock, the gate itself wouldn't budge.

Mycroft stood back, thinking. "How thick are the soles of your shoes, Tomas?" he murmured, examining the rusted hinges.

"Plenty thick, Uncle Mycroft," the boy's grin was tangible.

"And how strong are your legs feeling at present?"

"Pretty strong, actually," Tomas bounced on his toes.

"Sufficient to loosen a couple of petrified hinges, do you think?"

"Easily sufficient, Uncle Mycroft," his nephew-in-law was almost smirking.

"Would you care to test that assumption?" Mycroft turned, a faint look of invitation on his face.

"Where do you want me to hit it?" Tomas examined the solid-looking but rusty construction.

"I think a reasonably authoritative strike in this region would do the job," Mycroft waved his fingers just above the loosened bolt.

Without another word, the teenager planted the sole of his trainer flat against the gate and gave a vigorous shove. With a dusting of iron flakes and screeching metal, the tall gate resisted no more. While not swinging freely, it was at least passable.

Tomas turned and grinned hugely.

Cate smiled. Mycroft knew with her Hapkido training, the gate would have been little challenge, but he had wanted Tomas to feel necessary to the adventure; that he was needed. It seemed to be working: the boy was almost puppy-like with pleasure at being so useful. And if anything might convince him to think twice about running off to London, it would be because he realised he didn't _have_ to leave home to achieve the freedom he sought. A little bit of self-confidence might do wonders.

As they passed through, they could see the other side of the gate had also received the landslide illusion treatment. Unless you _knew_ it was fake, you wouldn't bother getting close enough to find otherwise. It was a brilliant disguise.

And now the passage beckoned once again as they walked down, always down. The smell of the sea was all around them now, and within a minute, the darkness had lifted, the stone steps beneath their feet turned into uncut but flattened bedrock, gritty with sand and limpets as they exited from a deep cave onto a perfectly sheltered cove. A few more steps and they were on a small beach surrounded by high cliffs on two sides and a steep hilly slope on the third. Before them lay a Mediterranean-blue watered inlet, tiny ripples of clear water creeping up and back on the smooth and untouched sand.

_Almost_ untouched sand, Mycroft noted with a subtle frown.

Over at the far side of the small beach was a clear elongated scar, as if something long and heavy had been hauled ashore and then dragged back to the water. He looked at the surrounding cliffs and hillside: nothing that weighty or with that mass could have reached this place other than by sea or by a heavy-lift Chinook or Sikorsky. There was no obvious escape via the cliffs, therefore any passage from this discreet anchorage must be via the only remaining route; the steep hillside. Sharpening his focus, Mycroft could make out several places at the base of the grassy slope that showed signs of the recent passage of many feet. As he looked even closer, he was able to discern the faintest hint of a path zigzagging up the dusty bank.

Pursing his lips, he nodded to himself. _Interesting_.

"Oh, but this is _fantastic_," Cate enthused. "If the children had longer legs, I'd have them down here every day."

"Why do they need longer legs?" Tomas was uncertain.

"I don't think a toddler could handle all those steps, and I'm not sure I'd want to carry one all the way back up, let alone two of them," she sighed. "But I'd use the passage every day if I could," kicking off her canvas deck-shoes, she buried her toes in the warm sand. "This is too lovely for words."

The heat of the afternoon sun on the back of his head made Mycroft feel a little uncomfortable and he decided shade would be more appropriate. For some reason, he felt the onset of a faint headache.

"At least we know the house has at a passage and where it leads," he said. "There might be something about it in the early plans of the property if they can be found.

Knowing now that Mycroft wouldn't be satisfied until he'd unearthed any existing plans, Cate smiled.

"There was supposed to be a private beach with the house, wasn't there?" she asked. "But not this one, I think."

"No, there's another small bay just in front of the house; a brief walk down a fenced pathway and it's there," Mycroft started walking back to the shade: the sun was surprisingly potent and his head throbbed for a moment.

"Then let's go back and take the twins down to the beach so they can spend a while getting acclimated to a real beach," she said, grinning. "Race you two back up the steps."

With a whoop of still-childish laughter, Tomas dashed into the mouth of the cave to grab his torch, with Cate not far behind.

Mycroft followed at a more responsible pace, still feeling the unexpected heat of the sun on him. Perhaps he was dehydrated and needed a cool drink of water. Even the thought of it made his mouth dry. Picking up his feet, he followed the others back into the cave and up the steps.

###

"This will not be simple, you realise?" Bisset lit a Gitane and exhaled the pungent smoke. "It is dangerous even when we take every precaution, and when the night sky is in our favour, but you are asking me to do this at the wrong time of the calendar: it is incredibly risky. Can your client not wait even for one more week? It would be safer."

The tall sunburned Greek shook his head. "It is more dangerous for my client to stay in France than it is for him to take the risks you describe," he said. "He must leave the country as soon as is possible; certainly within the next few days."

"It is not only your client who shares these risks, of course," Bisset narrowed his eyes and looked unpleasant.

"And it is for this reason that you are being very amply paid for your services, _monsieur_," the Greek raised his heavy eyebrows, perfectly calm. The Frenchman would not do anything to upset the arrangement which benefitted them both. Despite his grouching, he would take the risks.

"It will take me two more days to arrange for the fuel to be delivered," Bisset ground the cigarette beneath his shoe. "You understand that refuelling my vessel is a little more complicated than most."

Nodding, the Greek agent shrugged. "It is the way of things," he said. "Two days?"

"Will your client be ready?"

"My client is ready right now," the tall man looked around. "I have to be careful myself, in case I am followed. It would not be … healthy for my client to be apprehended by any members of the security forces, you understand."

"I do not care who or what your client is," Bisset spat on the ground. "I am only interested in the money. Half up front and half later as usual?"

"In this instance, I think I shall consider one-third before and the rest upon completion," the agent looked thoughtful. "It would be too easy for my client to go for a swim in the middle of the Channel if you were apprehended by the British coastguard and the money had already been paid," he paused. "So I think we will be a little more prudent this time."

Sighing with impatience, Luc Bisset, Captain of _The Clear Sky_, looked around. "Then let us hope that you were not followed, monsieur," he said. "Or swimming in _la Manche_ will be the least of our problems."

"So when can you go?"

Making a face, Bisset scowled. "Today is Wednesday," he muttered. "I can go on Friday night. Have your client at the usual place in Saint-Pol-de-Lèon by sunset and I will take him then."

"Friday at sunset?"

"Agreed," Bisset nodded. "And make very sure that nobody follows you."

###

By the time they stepped back through the open doorway into the library, Mycroft was feeling distinctly under the weather. He was uncomfortably hot, his head ached, and his hand, where he'd cut it grasping the sharp-edged rock, was tender and oddly tingling. He was also incredibly thirsty.

Turning back to smile at him after their little adventure, Cate took one look at his flushed face and her expression changed dramatically. "Darling, you look _terrible_; do you need to lie down?"

About to dismiss his wife's concern as unnecessary, Mycroft changed his mind as he felt his stomach turn unexpectedly queasy.

"I think I will rest briefly," he attempted a dismissive smile as his body argued that _briefly_ might not be enough.

"Tomas, bring a large glass of cold water up to the main bedroom please," Cate wrapped an arm around Mycroft's waist as he seemed almost ready to drop.

"A little fatigued," he mumbled. "Dehydrated, most likely."

"Let's get you to bed and resting and after a nap you might feel better," Cate smiled calmly, though she felt anything but. She had never seen him ill. Tired, exhausted, yes, but ill? And yet he had been perfectly well only an hour before. Cate kept her worries quiet. Perhaps he simply was dehydrated and a snooze might do him the world of good – he had been overdoing things at work recently; hardly surprising therefore if there were moments when he went a bit wonky.

Getting him into their room, Cate sat him on the bed and went to draw the curtains. Pulling the covers back, she helped him out of his jacket and shoes as he lay back against the cool linen.

Tomas arrived with the water and she helped Mycroft drink it. He gulped it down in seconds. "More please," he swallowed with difficulty, as if his throat was too tight for anything to go down.

Trained as a first-aider, Cate was beginning to feel seriously concerned. If she didn't know better, she'd swear the Mycroft was having an allergic reaction. Had he been bitten by something?

"My love, have you been stung?" she examined all the visible parts of his skin.

With closed eyes, he shook his head slowly, clearly unwell.

Thinking, Cate cast about for anything that had happened in the last hour – they'd been together almost the entire time – if anything had happened, she would have seen, would have noticed _something_ …

"Let me see your hand," she said reaching out to turn his wrist palm-up.

The skin was bright-red and angry, with several small cuts already suppurating a clear yellow liquid. This was bad: whatever it was that Mycroft had touched was clearly a venomous substance. The fact that his condition had gone down so rapidly meant he was reacting badly and there was no saying how much worse he might become. There was only one thing for it.

_Hospital_.

But first she had to clean his skin of any toxic substance. Tomas returned looking alarmed.

"I have to wash Mycroft's hand," she said. "But I need help getting him to the sink, so grab an arm," she added, taking the side nearest her and lifting. Between the two of them, they got a feverish and staggering Mycroft to the ensuite where Cate proceeded to scrub both his hands and wrists with hot water and soap. He groaned wretchedly.

"_Sorry_," Cate was focused on the task. "I have to get all this gunk off your skin and then get you to a hospital; you'll ill."

"No hospital," he mumbled. "New security protocol."

"Rubbish," Cate didn't waste time arguing. "Lie back down and I'll get my bag. Where's the nearest hospital?" she asked the boy.

"_Poltair_, about ten-minutes from here. It's a small place, but they have everything a bigger hospital has."

"Good," Cate nodded. "I'll need directions."

"No hospital," Mycroft muttered again. "Get one of my doctors here."

"My love, we're not in London, I have to get you to a hospital," Cate struggled to keep her voice level.

"_No hospital!_" Mycroft snarled, grabbing her upper arm in a cruel grasp as both Cate and Tomas jumped, neither his shout nor movement expected.

"Mycroft, you've been poisoned," Cate moved to hold his face between her hands. "I can't take care of you here, my love."

His eyes strafed her with caustic reproach.

Cate paused, she had never seen him look so antagonistic before.

"No hospital," he was peremptory. "Just listen for once and do as you're told."

This was not like him, not even on the rare occasion when he'd been furiously angry. The chill of his voice was physically discomforting. Even Tomas stared.

"Mycroft, you're ill, I need to get you to the proper care as fast as possible," Cate was not about to back down, despite his belligerence.

"Phone Chief of Security … _Beaumont_; he arranges these things …" his voice faded as he lay back against the pillows, pale and sweating.

Exasperated, Cate dug out his Blackberry from an inside jacket pocket and scrolling through Mycroft's contacts, she found an Alex Beaumont. In a second she had dialled the number and was waiting breathlessly for a response.

"_Beaumont_," a drawling American accent was in her ear. "Thought you were on vacation, Mycroft?"

"Mr Beaumont, my husband is seriously ill but refuses to let me take him to hospital. He's been poisoned, and if I don't get him medical attention, his condition may worsen. He says it's a new security protocol and told me to ring you," Cate drew a shaky breath. "Are you actually forbidding Mycroft hospital treatment?"

"_Good God, no_," Beaumont was shocked. "Merely that he needs to be supervised when being treated in case of deliria," he added. "Where are you … no, scrub that," Beaumont's voice faded for a few seconds. "Got the GPS of the phone you're using," he said. "I've already scrambled the nearest emergency medical support we have in the area; a Sea King helicopter search and rescue team from HMS Seahawk in Culdrose," he continued. "Should be there in less than ten minutes," he added. "Can they land?"

"There's an open field about a hundred yards down the lane from the house," Cate was heady with relief. "I'll be waiting for them."

"Can Mycroft hold on until the medics arrive?" Beaumont sounded worried.

"I hope so, Mr Beaumont," Cate looked at Mycroft's unnaturally pale face and shallow breathing. "He's not well."

"Just try and keep him going until the Fleet Air Arm guys arrive, Professor Holmes," Beaumont clearly knew who she was. "Keep talking; I'm patching our conversation into a mike on board the helicopter enroute to you now: please describe the problem; whatever you tell me they'll hear too."

"Mycroft touched some oily substance on the wall of a cave beneath the house. The substance has a profoundly bad smell: metallic, chemical, nasty," she paused, drawing another shaking breath. "Then he managed to get several small cuts in the same hand and I think some of the substance, whatever it is, has got into his bloodstream …" Cate's voice trailed off as Mycroft's breathing began to grow rough and strained.

"Oh, God, please _hurry_," she spoke faster. "His breathing is getting worse and I'm not sure he's going to remain conscious for long."

There was a scratchy crackle as a new voice sounded in her ear.

"This Pilot Captain Dunford. ETA to landing site approx three minutes, M'am," an educated British accent delivered the comforting news. "Is the patient breathing independently?"

"Hang on," Cate handed the phone to Tomas while she grabbed two more pillows and, pulling Mycroft forward, got him sitting further upright. Then she ripped open his shirt and listened to his heart and his chest.

_Thank God_. His heart, though beating fast, sounded strong, and there was no obvious wheezing in his chest. Cate took the phone back.

"He's sitting up and breathing unaided, but it's strained and I'll initiate CPR if it worsens," she said, her fingers on Mycroft's pulse. It was thin and bouncy. He had not spoken now for several minutes, and his pallor was severe.

"We have your house on-screen, M'am," the Pilot's announcement made her feel weak. "Be with you in a jiffy."

"Tomas," Cate pointed out the bedroom door. "Go let them in, please."

###

The Watchers had been wide-eyed as the bright yellow helicopter landed in the field right behind their bolthole. The tall grass that functioned as their main screen blew nearly flat under the downdraft from the Sea King's four-bladed main rotor.

Almost before the aircraft touched down in the waving green ocean, two men in matching yellow uniforms leaped out, both carrying large square cases in their arms. They ran very fast towards the house where the people were staying.

There were still another two men on the helicopter, so the watchers decided to lay low for a while and see what was going to happen next.

Several minutes later, a third man came out of the machine, carrying a lightweight aluminium stretcher, which he took into the house. A few minutes after that, all three men came out again, carrying someone one the stretcher, but as the person was all wrapped up and strapped in, the Watchers couldn't see who it was. The lady they had seen earlier in the garden talking on the phone came with them, carrying a small suitcase.

Everyone climbed into the yellow helicopter, which started its long blades spinning and whirring again, until it took off into the sky, heading back the way it had come.

As soon as everything went quiet, those who watched became those who reported.

###

They had been at the West Cornwall Acute Diagnosis and Treatment Centre since yesterday afternoon; the first day of their 'holiday'. It had been pretty full, Cate reflected.

A runaway nephew; the discovery of a secret passage; a hidden cove and a poisoned husband, followed by a night in the acute treatment centre of a local hospital.

The Sea Kings' medic had eased Mycroft's breathing with an injection of an epinephrine-based drug, but had pronounced continued observation and treatment in the West Cornwall to be critical. And so they'd come here. Cate yawned, feeling worn out with all the events of the last twenty-four hours. They'd put Mycroft into a twin-bedded private room, and she'd managed to doze lightly in the empty bed during Mycroft's unconscious fight with the anaphylactic reaction to whatever it was he'd absorbed. Nurses had drawn phials of blood on several occasions for a range of tests.

She had informed Alex Beaumont of the situation and had, as per his request, not left her husband's side in the hours he'd been here, first unconscious and now sleeping.

There was an extended sigh as Mycroft began to wake. Rubbing the sleep from her face, Cate sat on the edge of his bed, waiting. His eyes flickered open.

"How are you feeling, my love?" she brushed the hair back from his forehead.

He looked around. "Hospital?" His voice was back to normal, at least.

"The West Cornwall Acute Treatment Centre," Cate nodded. "Your Mr Beaumont knows you're here and all is well."

Visibly relaxing, Mycroft observed her appearance. "You are tired."

Looking fatalistic, Cate shrugged. "The joys of married life," she stroked her thumb along his cheekbone as his bandaged hand reached up to touch her fingers, bringing them to his lips, he kissed the softness of her palm, eliciting the soft intake of her breath.

Smiling, he tugged her down towards him, lifting his other hand around the back of her head, bringing her closer. His kiss was gentle but as her lips parted for him, he became more interested in her active response, holding her closer and deepening the embrace with a low grumble of pleasure. It was clear to both of them where this was heading.

Gasping and laughing, Cate pulled herself away.

"You've been quite ill," she murmured. "Plenty of time later."

"I want you now," his eyes were dark as he gazed at her. "Here."

Still smiling, Cate shook her head. "This is a public place, Mycroft. People walk in and out all the time."

"I want you," he repeated, a strange smile on his lips. "Lock the door."

Uncertain, Cate paused. It was half-tempting and half-strange. For Mycroft to be so unconcerned with discretion was unlike him.

"Later," she decided, laughing again, her fingers stroking the side of his face.

A faint frown appeared between his eyes as he absorbed her refusal. He raised an eyebrow.

Catching sight of a ring of blue-black bruises around her upper arm, his frown increased. They had not been there the previous day and were clearly made by a hand that had tightened hard around his wife's supple limb.

"Who did that?"

Lifting both her eyebrows and looking rueful, she looked down at him and made a face.

"_You_ did, my love," Cate tipped her head to one side. "But don't feel bad about it: you weren't in any state of mind to know what you were doing and they'll soon go, in any case."

Tracing an arc gently around the outer part of her arm with the ball of his thumb, Mycroft regarded the marks he had left on Cate's flesh. Dark and angry, their genesis must have been a fairly painful event. It was odd, but he could not find it in himself to feel guilty about it, or that the act was worthy of repentance.

It wasn't even displeasure he was feeling.

Bringing her hand to his lips again, he smiled.

###

_La Ciel Claire_ edged almost silently out of her very discreet and very well hidden mooring just outside of Troguérot, as soon as Bisset judged the night was as dark as it was ever going to get. Though the moon was not full, it was certainly providing a greater illumination than he wanted. His right-hand man was equally unimpressed. Joubert stood in the bow, hiding the light of his cigarette in a cupped hand and scowling.

"It is too dangerous to travel in this," he muttered, his quiet words carrying easily in the still night air. "We will be discovered for sure."

"You share of this contract is fifty-thousand Euros," Bisset eased his boat through a bank of tall marsh-reeds that masked a hidden anchorage with a short wooden jetty. "For that kind of money, you can handle a little danger."

At the top of a jetty stood a number of two-hundred litre drums of diesel fuel, left there less than an hour previously for Bisset to collect. He would align _The Clear Sky_ next to a small electric pump and empty every drum in order to fill her capacious duel tanks. They would need to refuel once they reached the Scilly Isles, but that arrangement had likewise been put in place.

Tonight they were fuelling-up and preparing for the trip tomorrow to the Scilly Isles. They would hide out there during the day, refuel as soon as dark arrived and then make for the Cornish coast on the following night.

Saturday night.

###

After speaking with Alex Beaumont for several minutes on his Blackberry, Mycroft had hugged his children when he and Cate arrived back at the Cornish house.

"Daddy better?" Blythe rested both her hands on his face as he lifted her up in his left arm. Her expression was troubled, her blue gaze probing his. She smoothed his eyebrows with her dainty fingertips.

"Your daddy is all better now, my darling," Mycroft spoke gruffly as he held her tight to him, an unanticipated stinging behind his eyes. That this small child had only his welfare in her thoughts was overwhelming.

"_Daddy!"_ Julius threw his arms high, demanding a whirl which he inevitably managed to get. The sensation of his son's two small arms tight around his neck was so overwhelming that he closed his eyes with the intensity of his reaction.

In that moment, Mycroft realised something was very wrong. He did not usually experience this level of emotional sensitivity, nor had he previously had any difficulty quantifying or resisting actions of moral ambiguity. Why did his children's affection have him close to tears? Why did he feel a near sense of gratification at Cate's bruises? What was eroding his moral compass and the capacity to control his responses?

With a horrifying chill, Mycroft Holmes realised he was still being poisoned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_No Ordinary Man – Of the Cruellest Kind – A Summons – A Fait Accompli – The Problem is Revealed – Incandescence – A Hasty Delivery – Leander Purrun is Unhappy – Preparing for the Worst – Into Darkest Cornwall – Before the Dawn._

#

#

The Watchers, all three of them, had reported back to camp, very carefully advising Leander Purrun, the head of their company, on everything they had seen and everything that had happened.

Purrun was a sensible man; he knew that if they wanted to be left in peace, he needed to have the lie of the land, and this meant watching out for things that changed. The recent events at the Big House, as the children called it, were nothing if not intriguing. A rescue helicopter no less? This was interesting news indeed and he wondered just who it was living in the old granite manor.

The boys had reported two small children, a man and a woman, clearly the parents, and an older woman, possibly a grandmother. And it was the man who had been sick; again, interesting. In the house for less than a day and taken sufficiently ill that an emergency rescue had not only been warranted, but available … this was no ordinary man.

Chewing thoughtfully on a long stalk of sweet grass, Leander Purrun surveyed his small camp. Only eight families with no more than ten children among them, the youngest still babes in arms. The three boys who had become his sight beyond sight were all scamps, but good boys who knew not to damage or steal. Unless it was cake, of course.

Purrun smiled. He would get the ingredients of something sweet and sticky for the boys as a reward for their meticulous watching.

They were all good boys. They did exactly as they were told.

###

There was no question about it.

He had checked and rechecked. There was a problem with his thinking, his … mind, and nothing he could do, no exercise or reframing, was able to amend the result of his probing or change the outcome of his analyses. It was not even that he had lost the ability to function in his usual manner, but the fine edge, the sharpness and ease of cerebral integration that marked his thinking as _different_, was not as it usually was. It wasn't gone, but Mycroft could feel an inhibition and lack of plasticity, as if the vast and floating range of his intellect had been wrapped inside layers of detail-blurring resistance.

Ironically, just as some of his thought-processes had been repressed, so others had become increasingly acute and spontaneous, notably his emotive behaviours. A smile from one of his children and the subsequent emotional spike swamped all other response. He knew: he had tested several hypotheses in this regard.

The knowledge that his ability to _think_ had been compromised, made his stomach churn. It was the quality of his intellect that made him _him_. It was his mind that had brought him Cate. Mycroft swallowed down a rising queasiness: would Cate even want him when she knew his thinking was impaired? If he lost his ability to reason, would he lose everything else as well? He closed his eyes and swallowed again in a dry throat.

Sitting with his elbows resting on the table in front of him now, fingers clasped beneath his chin, Mycroft was hideously aware that several decisions were needed and none were simple. Normally, such considerations required but a moment's thought, but not now. Now he found himself playing one alternative against another. It was exhausting. There was so much at risk and yet he was unable to seek aid from his peers at the very moment it was most needed.

And even though he had been reasonably successful so far in keeping the true dimension of the problem to himself, he knew was going to have to tell Cate. Tell her everything. She was going to be unhappy both for him and, he feared, _with_ him.

He had spoken at length with the doctors at the hospital and on the telephone, had grilled them about their opinions of diagnosis and prognosis. Nothing they had said to him was of the slightest surprise. Nor was it of the slightest use.

He had to have help, but he could not go to his associates in Whitehall.

To do so would reveal a void of uncertainty, and that was impossibly dangerous.

Therefore any help must be discreet and unofficial, and there was only one person who could give him both things. Yet the very thought rankled: to ask for the kind of aid he needed meant openly declaring a vulnerability of the cruellest kind, one which he might never fully cast off.

He sighed. There was no help for it.

Pulling out his Blackberry, he phoned his brother.

The discussion between them was as charged as he imagined it would be, although the final outcome was as he desired. There was further conversation involving matters of _equipment_, but that was mere operational detail. The essentials of his request were agreed.

He rose stiffly from his seat, wondering how best to tell Cate that Sherlock and John were about to be joining the family sojourn.

###

Putting his mobile back down onto the coffee-table, Sherlock was thoughtful, resting his fingers against the side of his head and staring at nothing. To John, this meant either that he was about to burst out in one of his occasional tirades against the terminal _ennui_ with which he was daily required to battle, or he was about to take on a new case. Prepared for the former but holding his breath for the latter, John waited.

"Mycroft's in trouble," Sherlock announced, slowly.

"Need our help to find some stolen government papers again, does he?" John returned to his newspaper. "Or has some MI5 operative gone rogue and threatened to tell everyone what Prince Philip has for breakfast?" he smiled, turning the paper over, only looking across at his friend when the silence grew.

"Sherlock?" John's first clue that this was something of particular significance was the look on the younger man's face. He was genuinely pensive. "What kind of trouble?"

Looking faintly uneasy, the younger Holmes linked his fingers in his lap. "He says he's been poisoned," Sherlock brought his fingertips to his mouth in meditation.

"What? _Good grief_," John sat upright. "Is it just him or are Cate and the kids affected too? Is he in hospital? Do they know what the poison was? How are they treating his condition?"

Shaking his head a little, Sherlock was curt. "Only him, some kind of toxin at the house in Cornwall."

_Cornwall?_

"What is Mycroft doing in the West country?" John looked puzzled. To his knowledge, the only things that got Mycroft out of London were either a government summit or … "Has Cate gone off on another of her escapades?" he inquired. "Has she gone missing or something?"

Shaking his head again, Sherlock tapped the knuckles of his joined hands against his chin. "Nothing to do with Cate or the children," he said. "He doesn't know much about the poison except that it's affected his thinking and he needs help locating the exact toxin, which is where I come in."

"He doesn't want anyone to know about the situation, so he's come to you for a bit of discreet chemical investigation?" John nodded to himself. It was the way Mycroft worked.

"But how was he poisoned in the first place?" the blonde man frowned again. "Does he know who is responsible? What's he planning to do about it? I bet he's not exactly happy."

A forced expression arrived on Sherlock's face. "An understatement, John," Sherlock smiled briefly at his friend. "And that's where _you_ come in."

###

"For how long?" Cate met his eyes and waited. Though she wasn't unhappy with the idea, this was supposed to be a family holiday, and she already had Tomas to think about in addition to the twins. After explaining to the boy that she needed his help for a few days until Mycroft was well enough to pick up the reigns again, her sister's youngest had agreed to stay on and lend a hand. It was good to be treated as an adult for once, and Tomas was in no hurry to leave that feeling behind.

Thus the knowledge that Sherlock and John were about to join the party the following morning was a surprise, especially since the first she'd heard of it was _after_ it had been arranged.

Mycroft could see she was a little put out by the unexpectedness of his _fait accompli_.

"I find I have need of my brother's assistance with a certain pressing problem," he looked down. "I am sorry, my love, to spoil the holiday."

He sounded so gloomy that Cate couldn't help but smile, rubbing his arm as she walked by him, not really noticing as he stepped carefully beyond the reach of her fingers.

"There are just enough bedrooms," she said, working out a new allocation in her head. "I can move Nora and the children into the second master as it has twin beds, and the boys can take the three single bedrooms at the back," she said. "Easy."

"Sherlock will also need a place to undertake some chemical analysis," Mycroft looked a little awkward. "Somewhere he won't be disturbed or be in anyone's way."

Meeting his eyes again, this time Cate was not so forgiving. He had been dancing around something since being discharged by the hospital, and her patience was wearing thin.

"What is it, Mycroft?" she asked. "Something is very much up, and you've chosen not to tell me, but even a fool could see something is wrong," she paused, staring through the window into the garden and sighed. "And I'm not exactly a fool."

Still unwilling to share his anxieties with her just yet, disinclined to see her expression crumble into pity for him for just a little while longer, Mycroft kept his own counsel. "I thought Sherlock might use the old scullery at the back of the kitchen," he said mildly. "It's bright and has power and a sink, as well as a long wooden bench," he paused. "The doors can be locked too."

So; he wasn't ready to confide in her. Very well. She knew enough not to waste her time pushing for things he wasn't willing to discuss.

But there would be a reckoning.

"Of course, if that's what he's going to need," her smile was overly bright. "Anything else?"

###

The sound of a powerful car engine approaching down the otherwise silent lane had Cate walking towards the front of the house, curious. An army Landrover Defender pulled to a halt in the small forecourt of the Cornish house, a tall, immaculately-groomed man stepping out the moment the vehicle had stopped. Dressed in a City-smart pin-striped dark blue suit, crisp white shirt, silk tie and shiny black shoes, Cate could only imagine him to be connected to Mycroft in some way.

"You have a visitor, darling," she called to him in the Book Room as it seemed to have become known. Waiting for his brother and John, Mycroft had decided the best thing for him to do was avoid any situation that might exacerbate his condition. Though he did not feel unwell, his thinking betrayed him in small but unanticipated ways. What had once been rich with the power of decision and control was now tentative at best. He found himself prodding his thinking processes like an aching tooth. Best to stay out of the way if he could.

Watching the visitor walk from the Land rover towards the front door, she felt her husband enter the room, though he kept himself well away from her side. Cate's stomach clenched with concern.

Since his return from the West Cornwall hospital yesterday, he had been in the strangest of moods: irritable, changeable, swinging from one thing to another. Was he still feeling unwell? If so, he should rest, but when she'd suggested a nap might do him good, he'd all but taken her head off. He hadn't even come to bed last night until after she'd fallen asleep, and his moods seemed to flit from one the next: first illness and anger; then denial, and now dismissal.

Cate wondered if he doubted her ability to handle the problem Sherlock and John were coming down to work on; possibly even that she might not want to have anything to do with him when he was in these peculiar tempers. She drew in a deep breath, turning with a smile.

"I'll go and make some tea, shall I?" she asked.

"Coffee for our guest," Mycroft nodded. "My Head of Security has not yet learned to appreciate the finer points of British tea-drinking rituals," he smiled, a little awkwardly, stepping back as she passed. "I'll let him in."

Gritting her teeth, Cate made her way to the kitchen, slamming the kettle around as well as the cupboard doors as she tried to calm herself. What was it about his situation that he wouldn't tell her? Why was he shutting her out? Banging cups and saucers onto a large tea-tray, she waited for the kettle to boil.

Mycroft had taken his visitor into the main front sitting-room of the house, warm and sunny as the afternoon sun streamed through the large bay windows. As Cate brought the tea-things through, the visitor stood, smiling, reaching over to take the tray from her hands.

"Good afternoon, Professor Holmes," he smiled genuinely. "Alex Beaumont," he added, offering his hand. "We spoke on the telephone two days ago."

_When Mycroft had nearly died_. Yes; she remembered.

"Lovely to meet you, Mr Beaumont," she smiled, gesturing him to sit. "As you can see, my husband is much improved, although not quite yet out of the woods, I feel."

"My wife has my complete confidence, Alex," Mycroft took the tea Cate left for him on the table. "There is nothing of my situation here about which Cate cannot be privy."

And just like that, he had changed again.

Cate looked down at the cup in her fingers. Now she knew something was wrong. A vague but deepening feeling of disquiet settled in her chest.

"Then I will be frank, Mycroft," Beaumont sipped his coffee. "When we spoke on the phone following your release from hospital yesterday, I was concerned by your apparently cavalier approach to your illness, some of the observations you made. They did not sound like you, not your usual way of handling such an issue," the American paused, toying with the handle of his cup. "I wanted to see for myself that you were ready to be out of hospital."

Sipping his tea, Mycroft smiled carefully.

"You suggest I might require a more constant form of medical supervision?" his smile grew a little more amused. "And you might be right," he turned to meet Cate's gaze. "I am still suffering the effects of the poison. It is … progressive," he added, slowly, lifting the cup to his lips.

Almost jack-knifing in her seat, Cate swivelled to stare at him, her heart thumping suddenly with fear and anger that she had received the information in such a way; that he hadn't been willing to tell her privately earlier.

Why hadn't he told her before? _My love … what is going on?_

Reading her dismayed expression, Mycroft shook his head. "I said nothing before now because I already knew there was nothing that could be done to help me at the hospital, that the damage had already been done," he looked down at his cup. "And I did not want you upset."

"_Damage_? What damage?" Cate felt a stab of ice. _Jesus, Mycroft._

He looked at her calmly, almost impersonally. "The toxin that entered my system is still present," he said. "I have had and am still experiencing weakness and a lack of control in several areas of my thinking and emotional response," he added. "Which is why I have asked Sherlock and John to come; I need to find the source of the toxin in order to begin locating a remedy if such a thing exists. For all his idiosyncrasies, Sherlock is a first-rate research-chemist, and I don't want any of the government labs involved until I know what I have to deal with."

"And what is John to do?" Cate knew John and Sherlock worked together, but if it was chemical analysis that was involved …

"Once we have discovered the nature of the toxin, I will be able to do something to locate those who are responsible for it."

"And that's where John comes in." Cate stared at her untouched cup, realising.

"What happens if your condition becomes known?" Beaumont looked uneasy. "If it gets out that you are having problems with your mind, Mycroft, all hell will break loose, not only in Whitehall but across Europe. How long do you imagine we can expect to keep your situation a secret?"

"I am officially on leave until the end of the month," Mycroft replaced his cup on the tea-tray. "If I have been unable to identify and rectify the effects of the toxin by that time, then I will take an indefinite leave of absence or resign my position," he nodded quietly. "It would be prudent to begin considering candidates for my replacement."

His face as shocked as his thoughts, Beaumont's dark features paled visibly. "_What_?" he croaked. "Who could possibly be a replacement? You are entirely serious?" his voice reduced to a mutter.

"Naturally," Mycroft steepled his fingers. "If I am unable to function fully, then I am unable to function _at all_ in my current role; you know that as well as I, _however_," he sat back, gazing between Cate and his Chief of Security. "There is still time."

"There are many excellent laboratories; there must be tests …" Beaumont struggled with the idea that Holmes could be so calmly accepting about something so dire.

"The hospital lab has already run several series of definitive tests," Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I am having problems with my mind, but am not yet entirely without reason or the ability to function," he smiled austerely. "I will handle this in my own way."

Meeting Alex Beaumont's eyes, Cate knew the thought in his mind was the same one in hers: what if Mycroft's way was the wrong one?

Caught in the unthinkable dichotomy of an ailing but still brilliant genius or one whose mind was already playing him false, Cate realised that it didn't matter. If there were ever a moment when he needed her absolute support, it was now.

Taking a slow breath, she turned to face him, meeting his intent blue stare, and she nodded. "Tell me what you want," she said. "Anything."

Mycroft felt an abrupt rise of feeling at Cate's willingness to trust him, even when he had not been as forthcoming with her. He closed his eyes for a second, lest the irresistible tide of emotion betray him beyond his tenuous capacity to bear.

"Daddy?"

Blythe's artless voice cut through the moment as she zigzagged across from the open door to stand at his knee, looking between his face and that of the stranger in the dark clothes sitting beside him. Resting a warm little hand on her father's leg, she looked at the visitor with open curiosity, lifting her other hand towards him as she had seen grownups do.

Captivated, Beaumont smiled lightly, looking between the Holmes' as their daughter stepped closer, placing her free hand delicately on his knee, lifting the other once again.

Taking her diminutive fingers gently between his own, Alex Beaumont's smile increased as the small child looked at the contrast between her hand and his; one tiny and pale, the other long and dark. Taking Alex's hand between both of hers, Blyth's expression grew serious and thoughtful as she turned his fingers back and forth, measuring them against her own.

There was a strange silence as the adults wondered what the child was thinking.

Suddenly looking directly into Beaumont's eyes, Blythe gave him an enormous smile. "You're _pretty_," she giggled.

Instantly and totally disarmed, Alex felt his face heat in an unexpected blush.

The atmosphere in the room dissolved in an unavoidable smile.

"And you are very charming, Miss Holmes," Alex kept his voice perfectly normal as he looked up to meet Mycroft's eyes.

"If you could manage to hang on until your daughter reaches her maturity, Mycroft," the American drawled, raising a refined eyebrow. "I think we'll have a suitable replacement for you after all."

###

Mycroft was collecting his pyjama bottoms and his robe when Cate came into their bedroom. One look at his face and she knew he was still worried about his … condition. He was about to go and sleep in one of the spare rooms, or something equally noble.

"Going somewhere?" she asked, kicking off her shoes and enjoying the sensation of bare feet in the hedonistically lavish carpet.

There was silence.

Turning to meet his eyes, her heart ached at the wretched expression on his face. He was so determined not to make the situation any worse than it already was, that he was about to isolate himself for the duration.

"I think it best we sleep apart until I am more … myself," he murmured, everything about him troubled and uncomfortable.

Cate assessed him. "Are you feeling unwell again?" she asked. "Having violent impulses?" she looked at him carefully. "Because if you are, I'm taking you right back to hospital and I don't care what anybody thinks about it."

Mycroft's face registered immediate shock, in itself a sign his emotional control was dilute and inadequate. "Of _course_ not," he shook his head, raising a hand to his brow. "It's nothing like that at all."

"Then tell me what it _is_ like, my darling, so I can understand and can try to help you." Cate walked over to him, her hand reaching up to touch the side of his face. "Please don't keep me out like this."

He jerked back from her fingers, stepping towards the window, away from her nearness. "_Don't_," he snapped. "When I said I had no control in certain areas, this was one of them."

"No control … how?" Cate desperately wanted to understand so she could reassure him. "Tell me, Mycroft, so I can at least try and avoid doing anything to make you feel worse than you already are."

He looked away, shaking his head in the embarrassment of admission or shame at the loss of restraint, he wasn't sure which. He sighed.

"I can't control my mental state when you are too close," he whispered. "When you touch me, when I feel the warmth of your skin, smell the scent of your hair," he shook his head again. "Something inside me goes off," his voice was rough. "From calm to incandescence in a second, and there's nothing in between and no curb at the end," he paused, breathing hard. "Stay away from me, Cate. I have no right to your company if I am unable to comport myself without some semblance of civilised behaviour."

That her husband might be even tentatively right made no difference to her immediate decision, and she had never been one for taking the safe alternative. Besides, there was a limit to how much damage he could do; how much she would _let_ him do …

"Mycroft," Cate said his name softly. "_Mycroft_."

He turned to her from his retreat by the window. The expression on his wife's face told him everything she was about to say and still he shook his head.

"_No_, Cate."

Keep her eyes on his; she walked closer, stopping no more than a yard from his stiff-backed warning. "My love, I am afraid your calculation has omitted a crucial value and is therefore incomplete," her smile was soft.

"And what is that?" Mycroft's features were rigid as he held onto what little remnant of self-discipline he could still muster.

"I adore incandescence," she whispered, her brown eyes refusing to leave his darkening regard for a second. She removed the space between them, her palms resting high against his chest, her lips parting as a high-pitched grunt caught in his diaphragm.

"_No_ …" but it was too late, even as the syllable left his mouth, Mycroft felt the scald of unchecked desire burn the vague shadows of his resistance away, felt his hands stretch out for her, felt Cate's sigh of acquiescence as she folded into his arms. His mouth claimed hers with a heat of possession he didn't know he could feel. She was his, _would always be his_, and tonight, she would not refuse him ... his heart pounded in his chest as Cate returned his kisses, like for like.

It was fire and madness; it was storm and fury. It was incredible.

###

They had apologised to him for the rush-job, but the driver of the lorry still felt pretty aggravated that he'd been dragged into this thing again. It wasn't so much that he had a moral objection to what he was being asked to do, he just didn't want to get caught.

Driving carefully down the narrow little lane, once again he wished they could have waited until there was no moon in the sky. Even though this place was out in the back of beyond, there were still hikers and campers and suchlike. One report of his number-plate and they'd all be for the high-jump. The driver nodded grimly. He'd make sure that if he went down, _everyone_ would go down with him; no way he was taking the fall for this if it all went south.

Arriving at the old mine, he turned the vehicle in preparation to backing it up, waiting for his guide to direct him safely towards the pit.

It was a matter of minutes only before another batch of the old steel drums went tumbling down into the depths of the ancient tin-mine.

###

Leander looked at their flushed faces. It was late enough that they knew to have been in bed, and yet they had still come to him, eyes bright and expectant.

"But it was the lorry _again_, Grampy," grandson number one waved a frantic hand, still panting from the mad dash back to camp. "It came like before and tipped things down the old mine."

"More drums?" Purrun scowled, a bad feeling permeating his bones.

"_Lots_ of big drums, Grampy," grandson number two looked wide-eyed. "Big rusty-looking drums."

"Was it the same lorry or a different one this time?" Leander needed to be sure.

"Same one, Grampy," grandson number three handed over a scrunched up scrap of paper on which Purrun could see the unformed pencilled letters of a childish hand. It was the same registration as before; the same people. He felt his face turn sour.

"Good work, now _bed!_" he pointed a firm finger towards their van. "And do not wake your mother or there will be the devil to pay."

Grinning hellaciously, the three boys ran off, as sure-footed as young foxes in the dark.

###

Pale early light painted the bedroom grey-gold once again as Cate turned in the bed feeling heavy and warm and incredibly sleepy. Her half-closed eyes blinked slowly as she saw Mycroft's bright blue gaze not twelve-inches away. He pulled the duvet down from her face, the warmth of his hand stroking the contours of her neck and shoulder.

"How do you feel?" his voice was dry, gravelly. "Are you all right?"

"Like I climbed several alps," she held his fingers to her face. "Really big ones," she sighed. "I feel wonderful," she added, stretching like a cat under the bedclothes. "Although," she paused, assessingly. "My legs seem to have disappeared."

"I assure you they haven't," his mouth curved as his hand slid down her side to rest on the swell of her hip and the smoothness of her thigh.

"Is it all right to cuddle or will that set you off again?" she murmured, pleased by his pacific mood.

Rolling more onto his back, she saw a smile arrive on his face.

"I think my energy is sufficiently depleted that I pose no immediate threat to your welfare," he sounded entirely untroubled.

"Good, then come over here as I can't be bothered to move," Cate closed her eyes feeling warm and fuzzy with sleep.

With a groaning sigh, Mycroft rolled himself closer, draping an arm heavily over her waist, drawing her into his warmth and resting his face against her chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart and the flow of her breathing. He felt entirely content and deliciously free of any contrition.

"And how do _you_ feel?" she murmured, her fingers stroking gently through the hair at the back of his neck where a small curl was trying to form.

"I believe your students have a phrase that most adequately describes my sense of being at this present moment," he sounded amused. "I'm confident you know the one I mean."

Cate felt herself smiling helplessly. She echoed the sentiment herself. Despite the difficulty of their overall situation, she had to stay confident they would find a way out of this; some way to fix the problem.

If not, then she would take Mycroft away from London, to Deepdene, possibly. If he was no longer able to be what he had to be for the British Government in the City, she would take him to the country and care for him there. He would be safe, she could look after him.

Holding him close against her, Cate listened to his quiet breathing and forced herself not to cry.

###

John spent the trip fast sleep in a standard bunk while Sherlock had walked the length of the train in between visits to the buffet car for endless cups of coffee. Arriving at their destination, they saw Mycroft had arranged for an Army Landrover to meet them off the overnight train from Paddington, its cabin packed solid with crates and boxes of equipment and materials. There was also a GPS navigation device in the driver's side of the front windscreen already queued for the Cornish house. According to the device, it was a twenty-three minute drive.

The weather was perfect: high white clouds and a blue expanse of sky. John remarked on its brightness as he headed out along the road towards Saint Just.

Deep in the observations of a paper on the latest in potentiometric titrations, Sherlock ignored his friend's wittering and focused on the issues of quantitative analytical chemistry.

"He said he found the substance under the house," John mused to himself. "Something to do with the house itself, do you think? Something to do with the ground beneath the house?"

Sighing, Sherlock left his reading of redox reactions, and met John's blue gaze.

"John, the house was built almost three hundred years ago," he said. "There's even a secret passage running all the way down to a private cove," he added, his eyes glinting. "Don't you think if there was something in the land beneath the building, that someone before my brother would have spotted it by now?"

"Dunno," John kept his eyes on the road. "Mycroft's pretty switched on. Maybe he was the first to find it, who knows?"

"Possible, but extremely unlikely," Sherlock frowned. "I have a suspicion the origin of the toxin affecting Mycroft, whatever it might be, is of far more recent generation."

"You already have an idea what the problem might be?" John flicked a look across his friend's face. Sherlock was being inscrutable as ever.

"Rémi Allanou," the younger Holmes turned back to his paper. "_Possibly_."

John was confused. "That would be a French person, yes?" he frowned, staring back at the road. "You think the French are trying to poison your brother?"

"_What?_" Sherlock was lost in John's rationale. The dark-haired man stared at his flatmate in confusion. "What have the French to do with Mycroft?" he demanded. "I'm not sure even the _French_ would be entirely thrilled with my brother's demise," he paused, thinking. "He keeps too many secrets for them."

"Then who is this Allanou and how is he connected with the current situation?" John turned off the A30 onto Polmennor Road.

"He's a chemist in the European Parliament," Sherlock muttered abstractedly, turning a page and lapsing into silence.

Shaking his head, John focused on the road and watched for potholes. Didn't want to break any of the stuff in the crates. There would be time for questions when they arrived.

###

It was over one-hundred nautical miles from Saint-Pol-de-Lèon to the quiet cove on the island of St Mary's in the Scillies, and would take Bisset and _La Ciel Claire's_ powerful dual motors every available hour of darkness to make it from the coast of France into British waters. If they were spotted either by passive means such as radar or satellite oversight, then the Coastguard would not be too far behind, and if _that_ happened …

Peering through the unlit glass of his wheelhouse, Luc Bisset stared out across the deck towards their only passenger on this trip. A very special passenger indeed if the money he was paying them was anything to go by. Clearly this was not some homeless refugee trying to leave the squalor and the grim reality of conflict or inter-tribal war.

The passenger was a middle-aged man, greying and bearded; heavily-built and with the look about him of one accustomed to the reins of power.

Yves was talking to him at Bisset watched; handing the man a small cup of the bitter coffee Joubert was so fond of.

The sea was calm and the night was very still. This was both a blessing and a curse: a calm passage meant a swift one, but it also meant that the sound of the engines carried a great deal further than usual. Bisset knew that if even a whisper of authority appeared, he would be expected to give them a run for the large sum of money he was being paid.

The Frenchman scowled. Though he liked the revenue these special trips brought, he did not like the unusual conditions that inevitably came with them. He decided; this was the last trip he would do for a 'special' passenger. From now on, he would be playing it safe.

All he had to do now therefore, was to navigate his boat across a large expanse of treacherous water, avoid any contact or observation by the ever-vigilant British authorities; bypass the coastal security of St Mary's before dawn, and get everyone into hiding before the sun came up.

Lighting another Gitane, Bisset smiled grimly as he edged _The Clear Sky's_ throttle a little further open.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five **

_Not the Usual Thing – Sherlock and John Arrive – A New Lab and a New Assistant – Bleed For Me – A Snake in the Grass – Recalibration, the Old Fashioned Way – Mycroft Takes the Wheel – Black Wall of Certain Death._

#

#

They were in the kitchen having breakfast when Julius lifted his head. "_Car_, Daddy," he said, his sharp ears catching the faint growl of an engine before anyone else.

Mycroft smiled at his son who looked interested at the thought of more visitors. Julius might not be as openly adventurous as his sister, but his wide hazel eyes saw everything and his curiosity was tenacious.

His children fascinated him almost daily with some new aspect of their personality or behaviour and despite his current predicament, Mycroft could not complain overmuch about his life. A brilliant and matchless partner; a comfortable lifestyle and two irreplaceable children. He stroked a lock of dark hair back from the small face, curving fingers around a soft cheek.

"You are a smart boy, Jules," Mycroft felt his innards lurch at the child's happy giggle. "Daddy loves you a very great deal."

Grinning widely, the child covered both his eyes with his hands, peeking between fingers.

"You are such a clown," Cate tickled her son's ribs as he squeaked with laughter. "And so is your father," she smiled standing behind Mycroft, her fingers combing through his hair.

"Darling," Mycroft allowed himself to rest easily back in his chair, even though his heart beat a little faster at her caress. He was determined to find some measure of control and composure by amending his behaviour and had mentioned this to Cate as they were dressing earlier.

"Meditation," she said sliding into a pair of loose shorts and a skimpy t-shirt that left most of her skin bare to the sun. Mycroft's heart thumped an undisciplined tempo.

"What?" his voice echoed his distraction.

"Preksha meditation," Cate looked up and saw him staring at her legs. She grinned. "The control of the emotions and passions through direction of breathing in order to attain inner peace," she held his gaze. "Instead of fighting to maintain control, allow yourself to float around it," she said. "You might be surprised how good it feels to take those corsets off."

"As you know, I am not accustomed to wearing such garments, my love," he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers.

"Not on the outside, perhaps," she grinned, darting close to press a light kiss to his mouth.

Tempted to catch her in a hug, Mycroft lifted his arms, only to clutch at his side with a sharp breath. Cate looked concerned. He shook his head.

"I appear to have over-extended a muscle in the recent past, though cannot recall the precise event," his tone was mild as he rubbed the tender spot.

"Really?" she laughed, amused. "I can think of several _events_ during last night where you were over-extending just about everything," she turned, pulling down the neckline of her t-shirt displaying a faint but unmistakable bite-mark on the cusp of her shoulder.

Unsure whether the feeling that washed over him was mortified shame or guilty satisfaction, Mycroft kept his silence, although he couldn't help his eyes widening a fraction.

"Let's just hope your brother doesn't notice," Cate rearranged her top. "Because I'm not going to be doing any explaining."

Mycroft felt his mouth curve into a smile as he looked down. "What are these?" he asked, picking up a neatly folded garment from a pile of clothing on the edge of the bed.

Khaki-green, cotton-drill, tailored …

Cate looked. "_Shorts_," she nodded "I like your legs too."

"I don't wear shorts, darling," Mycroft unfolded them to look at the details. He noticed they were very well made.

"You do not _usually_ wear shorts, my love," Cate rested her hands on her hips. "But then, so much about this moment in our lives is far from _usual_, wouldn't you say?" she nodded. "At least try them for an hour and if you really hate them, change back to trousers," she added. "I think you might be surprised."

The last time he recalled wearing shorts was the year before he began attending Harrow prep as a day-boy when he was eight. Other than on one or two unlikely sports days since he had never been expected to don such garb. Cate had left him a plain linen t-shirt as well, equally well-made and equally alien. On the floor was a new pair of light canvas deck-shoes in a dark tan shade, as well as a matching leather belt, also in tan. He raised his eyebrows. When Cate wanted him to do something, she left little to chance.

Holding the clothing in his hands he was at least able to appreciate the softness of the fabric as well as the lightness of the items themselves. They would not be uncomfortable to wear, especially as the day was already promising to be on the warm side.

Perhaps … with a few additional touches.

And not a single comment had been made upon his arrival for breakfast in the kitchen clad in his new civvies, although the addition of an open white shirt worn as a loose jacket, its sleeves carefully folded-up to elbow length and a loosely-knotted raw-silk cravat reduced his sense of exposure to an acceptable level. A pair of Wayfarers tucked into his breast-pocket completed the ensemble. Looking as relaxed as if he'd just stepped off a yacht in _Cap d'Antibes_, Mycroft smiled in his wife's direction as he took his seat, reaching for the coffee.

The children were already eating and Tomas looked like he had a decent head-start; Nora making sure everyone was going to have a good big breakfast as Cate sat at the table, a faint curve hung on her lips. He never failed to surprise her.

"There are two interesting people coming down to stay with us for a little while, Tomas," Cate helped herself to some of everything in front of her, feeling suddenly ravenous. "One is your uncle's brother who is a detective and the other is a doctor who works with him. They help the police with complicated cases."

Pausing in his apparent determination to clear the table unaided, Tomas fixed his eyes on his aunt. His sudden excitement was such that he hardly dared breathe. "Are they going to be helping find out what made you sick?" he looked at Mycroft.

"That is the intention," Mycroft nodded. "And you may be able to assist them in several areas, if you are agreeable."

"You _bet_, Uncle Mycroft," the boy's grin was almost indecent with anticipation. "That would be brilliant. What do you want me to do?"

"Your uncle is still not well, so he's going to be relaxing as much as possible, aren't you?" Cate raised an eyebrow as she caught Mycroft' gaze. "On the beach with me and the children, so it would be really good if you could show Sherlock and John where to find things, and fetch stuff for them if they need it," she paused, smiling. "I'd also like you to show them the secret passage. They'll probably want to go all the way down to the cove at least once, so we'd very much like you to act as their guide and assistant whenever they need anything, if you can manage all that?"

"You want me to be their assistant?" Tomas looked stunned. "And help them with the investigation?"

"If you don't mind, Tomas," Mycroft sipped his coffee. "I would regard it as a singular favour."

"When are going to be here?" Tomas jumped up. "I could start getting things ready for them right now. Where are they going to be sleeping? In the spare rooms? Want me to fix the rooms up for them? I could start doing that right now, if you like?"

Grinning, Cate waved a piece of bacon at her nephew to get him to sit and finish his breakfast. "Slow down. They're coming sometime this morning; yes, they are going to be in two of the spare rooms and Sherlock is also going to be using the old scullery behind the kitchen for some chemical analysis and is bringing some equipment with him, so you might be able to help him set things up as long as he doesn't think you'll get in the way. They might also ask you to take them around the place and ask you questions about local events, so I think you'll have plenty to do once they get here."

"_Wow_," Tomas sat, slowly chewing some toast. "This is so cool. Nobody in the family has ever done anything like this before. They are going to be _so_ jealous."

And then Julius had pricked his ears. "_Car_, Daddy."

###

Sherlock made directly for the kitchen as if he had lived in the house his entire life, not even pausing to peer into the other rooms as he passed them by.

Standing over by the oven, Mrs Compton was the first to smile at his almost silent entry.

"_Mr Sherlock_, you are looking well. Would you like some breakfast?" his old nanny was pleased to see him but by the visible hollows in his face, considered him to be on the thin side. He never was much of a one for eating, but perhaps she might be able to make him some of his favourites while he was here.

"Nanny Nora," Sherlock smiled at the older woman, walking over to peck her on the cheek before looking around, taking in the domestic scene with a single glance. His brother seemed calm though tired; Sherlock put that down to the toxin still coursing through his veins. Cate was looking well, he face peaceful and faintly smiling, her shoulders relaxing even as she stood to welcome him. She was clearly pleased they had come; the signs were plain. Probably worried to death about Mycroft. The two children grew massive grins on their faces as they always seemed to do when he appeared and which he had accepted by now as their default response to him. And there was a stranger in the family midst … teenager, no more than sixteen by the ratio of facial fat to jaw-length and the beginnings of darker facial-hair. Brown hair, dark eyes … familiar eyes, Sherlock focused for a second. Of course. Relative of Cate's; close, by the eleven separate points of similarity … ah yes. At the wedding. Neve Adin's youngest son, Mycroft's nephew by marriage. What was he doing here? But first, Mycroft.

"It is the same?" he directed the question at Mycroft as Cate walked around the table towards him.

"And hello to you too, favourite Brother-in-law," she smiled again, tugging his lapel until he bowed his head sufficiently for her to tiptoe and brush his cheek with her lips.

"It is the same, not yet worse," Mycroft stood stiffly, grabbing at his pulled muscle as it twinged. Looking across at his brother with a faintly derisive expression, Sherlock used the tip of his index finger to further reveal the mark he'd seen on Cate's shoulder as she'd stretched up to kiss him.

"Really, Mycroft," he censured. "At your age," he lifted an eyebrow at the hand his brother had clamped to his side. "And in your condition."

"No, no, _really_," Cate grinned maliciously as she poked the tall man firmly in the stomach so that he knifed away. "It's just _so lovely_ to see you again, Sherlock."

John walked in, amiable smile at the ready. "Greetings all," he nodded, looking directly across at the elder Holmes. "You right, there?" he appraised the man standing before him in a doctorly manner. "I'd like a bit of a chat at some point," he added. "Medically speaking."

"Uncle Shellock! Uncle John!" Blythe piped, lifting both arms in the air, demanding the visitors' attention.

Sherlock sighed inwardly. The twins were always so enthusiastic about everything … but still. Even he found it difficult to dismiss his brother's children, small and intrusive and, in the case of Jules, frequently sticky though they often were.

Walking over to his niece's chair, he bent down until Blythe could put her hand on one side of his face and lay a soft, baby-like kiss on the other. "Uncle Shellock, are you going to make sands cassels today?"

"Not today, child," he stood, fingers sliding over her fine hair. "Possibly not even when I am in my dotage. Hello, Jules," Sherlock leaned over and looked deep into a pair of hazel eyes. "Are you going to make sand castles too?"

Nodding seriously, Jules looked decided. "On the beach," he leaned down to the seat beside him and picked up a small plastic tool, holding it up on the table. "I have a spade."

Keeping his face absolutely straight, John agreed. "You certainly do, young man. You could dig to Australia with that thing."

"_Stralia_?" Jules opened his eyes wider.

"All yours, John," Sherlock smiled brightly as he clapped his friend on the shoulder before turning back to Mycroft. "You said there was a place I could set up the equipment?"

"Darling, please sit and finish your breakfast, I'll show Sherlock where everything is and get Tomas to lend a hand." Cate stood, one hand stretched out towards her nephew.

Mycroft nodded easily. "Tomas here has agreed to be your lab assistant and general factotum for the duration," he said. "Get him to give you a hand with the things in the Landrover and then we can talk."

Obligingly, Tomas stood too, his eyes almost as wide as Jules'. "Just tell me what you want done and I'll do it," he nodded keenly.

By now John had convinced both twins that there was a magical land called _Australia_ that was a very long way underneath the beach. Jules had already decided to find it. He stood, spade at the ready, grinning.

"Now that you've finished totally misinforming the next generation of the Holmes family," Sherlock frowned at his flatmate, "perhaps you would like to organise the medical investigatory elements of our little expedition?"

"But I've not even stopped for a cup of tea yet," John looked plaintively at the remains of a very decent breakfast on the table in front of him. "Let alone had anything to eat."

"I'll fix you up a nice plate, Doctor Watson," Nora Compton understood very well what it was to work in a house full of Holmes's. "I'll give you a shout when it's ready."

"Mrs Compton, you are a saint," John looked more cheerful. "I'll start unloading the transport." He looked across as Tomas. "Hi. My name's John and I'm a doctor," he said, offering his hand as he looked the boy over.

"I'm Tomas," the boy almost stuttered in his anticipation as he shook the blonde man's hand. "Aunty Cate is my aunt and Uncle Mycroft is, _well_, he's … and _anyway_, they said I could help you if you needed any help. If I can help, that is," his voice tailed away as he gulped in a sudden terror they wouldn't want his assistance.

Nodding sagely, John raised his eyebrows. "Always use a good man," he said. "Come and give me a hand unloading the equipment first," he added. "Do you know where it's all going?"

"I know _everything_," Tomas smiled brilliantly, leading the way out to the parked Landrover.

"Coffee, Sherlock?" Cate pointed him to a chair opposite his brother and waited to pour him a cup.

"Thank you," he smiled briefly before returning to stare at Mycroft who looked calmly back.

"Dermatologic, then?" he suggested. "Neurotoxin?"

Mycroft nodded. "Entered the bloodstream through these," he said, turning his right palm upwards for Sherlock to see the still-healing cuts. The skin surrounding them was raised and slightly angry-looking.

"Painful? Pain anywhere?" Sherlock reached out with both hands to pull Mycroft fingers closer. He sniffed the skin, pulling out his pocket-lens. No residual substance, obviously, no staining, no surface necrosis. There was nothing visible to the naked eye: hardly surprising given the number of times the skin had been cleansed in the interim.

"No pain there anymore," Mycroft shook his head. "Heat, sometimes, but not specific topical discomfort." He sat back and looked introspective. "No pain elsewhere, either, just a significant reduction of my thinking. It's as if a thick membrane has wrapped itself around my thoughts."

"I'll have John take some scrapings from your hand once he's set up," Sherlock sat back, reaching for his coffee. "And blood samples and I'll need to ask you a number of diagnostic questions, but in the meantime, speculations?"

"Some kind of chemical pollutant or reagent, obviously," Mycroft reached for his own cup. "But what, and how it relocated into the strata beneath this house, I cannot imagine."

"I had wondered if …" Sherlock paused, thoughtfully. "If it might have anything to do with Rémi Allanou?" he paused, watching his brother's reaction.

"Allanou?" Mycroft leaned forward. "The European Commission's tame wunderkind?" he frowned. "But he's on the side of the angels, or at least, everything I know of the man points that way."

"Not Allanou himself I was thinking of, _per se_," Sherlock lifted two fingers to support the side of his head. "But rather some of his protocols."

Closing his eyes, Mycroft pushed his mind as hard as he could, but only vague outlines were there. The real meat of the information was tantalisingly out of reach. He wrinkled his forehead unhappily. "Remind me," he said.

Careful not to show his surprise at the level of Mycroft's debilitation, Sherlock linked his fingers.

"I'll walk the children down to the beach," Cate helped Blythe down from her seat. There was a small and very sheltered inlet almost directly in front of the house, down a gentle but extended sloping pathway through the garden. With the children's short legs, it would take them easily ten minutes or more to get to the shore. "I'll expect you to join us as soon as you are done here, darling," Holding her hand out for Jules to latch onto, the brothers heard her walking out to the front of the house talking to the children about putting on their sunscreen.

"Cate is worried," Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face. "She says nothing, but her concern is manifest."

"Then we must all do what we can to remove her fears," Sherlock replaced his cup, making up his mind about something. "Mycroft," he said. "What _are_ you wearing?"

###

Some of the crates and boxes in the Landrover were small but very heavy.

"Hang on," John saw Tomas attempting to lever a particularly solid box into his arms. "I'll take that one: it's a micro-centrifuge and costs more than you or I are worth put together," he said, lifting the beast carefully into his arms and walking it through the house to the old scullery at the back.

To call it a scullery was probably unfair, since the entire house had been thoroughly renovated in the last ten years and this particular space was now light and airy and just waiting to be put to proper use. A line of windows with heavy roller-blinds rand down one side of the long and narrow space. In front of these, there was a long, waist-high bench made of solid and waterproof-looking wood, with a large stone butler's sink in the corner. Beneath this ran a line of empty shelves and cupboards.

On the opposite side of the room was another bench-type structure, but this one was narrower, and stood more like a very wide shelf. But it was sturdy and would serve as additional workspace were such needed. On both sides of the room were several double electrical sockets. The lighting was good and there was plenty of ventilation both via the operable windows and a half-glassed door at the far end which could also be locked. It was almost a perfect set up for a makeshift laboratory.

Between them Tomas and John had already managed to empty the Landrover, except for a series of cardboard boxes containing various materials and supplies. The heavy equipment was already to be hooked into the various power sockets, awaiting only Sherlock's choice of their location.

"I'll go get the rest, John," Tomas used the older man's name shyly, unused to this new adult egalitarianism. John smiled. It was a long time since he'd been quite so green, but he remembered the feeling and he wondered what the story was; why was the boy staying with Mycroft and Cate?

Sherlock strolled through into the brightly lit space, looking around to see the extent of his temporary empire. "This should do well enough," he murmured, noting the unpacked equipment and boxes of distilling glassware, flasks, clamps and scales. There was a great deal to do setting up before he could even begin collecting and analysing the offending material. His laptop was on top of the nearest box and he opened it only to find the battery defunct. He could use it plugged-in, but he preferred the freedom to move it around with him as he thought.

"Damn," he muttered. "I'll have to print out the ratios page I was going to use. That's a nuisance. Wonder if Cate's got a printer."

"Ratios?" Tomas placed another heavy box down onto the wide shelf behind his uncle's brother. "You have a problem with ratios? I can help with those, if you like," the boy smiled encouragingly, tapping the side of his head. "I'm good with sums and stuff."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock examined Cate's young relative. He appeared to be quite serious.

"78 divided by 162?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"0.481481481," Tomas blinked once.

"27 divided by 13?"

"2.07692308," not even a blink that time.

"15054 times 162?" Sherlock folded his arms.

"2438748." Tomas leaned back against the shelf, a small smile creeping in the corner of his mouth.

"I see we have something of a Mathematician in our midst, John," Sherlock looked appraisingly at the happy youth. "How are you with chemical formulae?"

"Pretty good, I think," Tomas frowned slightly. "Don't get the chance to do much of that kind of stuff at school yet."

"Then you shall have some practice as you help us solve the problem that is my brother's mysterious illness," Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip. "Just numerics or do you have other skills as well?"

Looking apologetic, Tomas shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Just the numbers thing," he made a face. "I realise it's not much."

"More than I could manage without taking my socks off," John brought in the last of the big boxes. "Only a few bits and pieces left out there," he said. "Now I'm going to have some breakfast and a little chat with Mycroft. You two okay to play safely out here without me for a few minutes?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned to Tomas. "You can show me how to get into the secret passage?"

"_Hey_," John shouted back down the passage. "Not without me, you don't_, so don't show him, Tomas_," John's words faded as he vanished into the kitchen.

"Do you really want to see the passage without John coming too?" Tomas asked.

"I'd never hear the end of it if I did," Sherlock started setting up the equipment, beginning the lengthy recalibration process usually needed after such pieces had been in transit. He indicated the closest piece of technology with a sideways look. "Want to help?"

Thrilled almost speechless, Tomas could only nod. "Do what?" he asked.

Digging out a fine scalpel from a pack, Sherlock smiled. "Bleed for me," he walked forward.

###

The three Watchers were beside themselves with excitement. _Another_ army jeep, this one packed solid with mysterious boxes of all shapes and sizes and with two men in it, although neither were in uniform. Taking note that some of the boxes seemed very heavy and that the blonde man wouldn't let the older boy carry some of them, they also noted that several of the ones the boy was able to carry had medical red crosses on them. Medical supplies? Were they for the man who had been sick and taken away in the helicopter? Was one of the men a doctor?

Wondering what Grampy would think when they told them of the newcomers and the piles of stuff being carried into the house, the boys went scurrying off, grandsons one and two tearing away, leaving grandson three to run as fast as possible to keep up.

Not being quite so tall as the other two, the youngest was in such a mad dash to keep up that he quite failed to notice the coiled serpentine creature basking in a clearing of grass in the early morning sun.

Failed to see it at all until his small foot had already thudded down perilously close to the dark-brown snake, whose black-V markings became even more visible as the snake reared up to strike.

By the time the child realised what was happening, the Adder had already sunk its fangs into the boy's ankle.

He screamed.

###

John walked into the makeshift lab with a thoughtful look on his face. He had given Mycroft a basic examination and done a few elementary neurological tests, and everything seemed fine. He would need to work up his own pathologies, the etiology of whatever was afflicting the man was not going to be a simple find, especially if a research centre like the West Cornwall wasn't able to come up with much.

But then, they hadn't been working with someone like Sherlock Holmes.

As he walked in through the kitchen-side door of the lab, the first thing he saw was the extraordinary pallor on the boy's face. He looked as if he were right about to faint.

The next thing he saw was the fine blade in Sherlock's hands and the intent expression upon his face.

"What's going on here?" John frowned as Sherlock waited for Tomas to hold out a hand.

"Cate's nephew is giving me a sample so I can recalibrate the Multiplex PCR using positive aerobic samples before I test anything that might be other than healthy, and since young Tomas here is probably going to have the healthiest blood among us all, then his seems the best candidate for the recalibration." Sherlock frowned. "Problem"

"Only that the boy's looks about to pass out in fear from being approached by a knife-wielding stranger," John rested his hands on his hips. "Put the bloody thing down and I'll get you a sample the old-fashioned way, assuming Tomas is still agreeable to helping."

Nodding mutely, Tomas couldn't help relaxing a bit when he saw his uncle's brother slide the blade back among its peers. "Old-fashioned way?"

Reaching into a cardboard box that declared its contents to be _Arterial blood gas equipment_, he quickly found a smaller box entirely devoted to syringes, extracting a sampler with an integrated needle. Grabbing an alcohol prep pad, he quickly swabbed down a spot on the vein on the inside of his elbow and in a second, had the sampler collecting a small amount of swiftly-flowing blood. As soon as the sampler had filled, an act that took scarcely three seconds to accomplish, John popped it from his skin, stuck a small round plaster over the tiny red mark and handed the filled sample to Sherlock who took it with a smile of thanks, disposing of the used needle in a yellow Sharps container.

The entire procedure had taken less than twenty seconds.

"You still want to help?" John raised his eyebrows, reaching into the box for another sampler.

"Of course," Tomas nodded easily, more secure in the knowledge of what was expected. Just as with John's own sample, the boy's blood took mere seconds in collection and Sherlock now had two healthy specimens for his recalibration purposes.

Wearing his own small round plaster like a badge of honour. Tomas and John made short work of unpacking the rest of the equipment and setting it up wherever it seems the most sensible place to be. No doubt Sherlock would want to change it all around to suit his own preference, but he didn't need them for that.

"Right then," John stood up, stretching his back. "Ready to show me that secret passage?"

"At least wait until I have organised the equipment," Sherlock kept his eyes on the glassware he was setting up. "Did you find the HAZMAT sample kits?"

"Yep, over here," John nodded, indicating several clear plastic bags, each containing a range of gloves, sample bottles, tins and bags, as well as spatulas, disposable tweezers and pipettes.

"Then we are about ready to begin our investigations, I believe," taking a quick look around the newly-arrange lab, the younger Holmes was not completely unhappy with the equipment Mycroft had arranged for him. It was nowhere near as comprehensive as a full-scale laboratory, but it would be sufficient to provide at least the beginning of an investigation.

Tomas was leading them down through the kitchen and about to cross the main hallway into the book room on the other side of the house, when a thunderous thumping at the front door.

"_Help!_ Help us please if there is a doctor inside. _Help!_"

John was the first to react, probably used to hearing anguished cries for help; his immediate dash towards the door was instinctive as much as rational. Even though he had moved the moment he'd heard the first shout, Mycroft was still there before him, wrenching the door open even as John arrived, with Tomas and Sherlock mere yards behind.

A tall older man stood panting in the porch, his arms clutching a small boy close to his chest.

"Help me if you can, _please_," he gasped, "Is there a doctor here?"

"I'm a doctor," John was already lifting the child from the man's arms, taking him into the nearest room which happened to be the front sitting room where Alex Beaumont had sipped his coffee only yesterday.

Laying the small form along one of the sofas, the doctor turned his attention directly to the obvious source of the problem: the child's ankle was red and swollen hard. There was a small patch of whitened skin directly above the ankle joint and in the centre of this were two livid bite marks.

"Snake?" John didn't need to ask, but it was always wise never to assume. As he waited for a response, he began checking the boy's vital signs, his breathing and circulation. Though the child was not completely unconscious, he was slipping in and out of awareness. Not the best of signs. "How long ago?"

"Not more than twenty minutes," the old man had sunk down onto a chair, breathing very heavily. "Does he need to go to the hospital?"

"Yes, he does," John looked up, nodding. "But they will have anti-venom handy at this time of year, so there shouldn't be too much problem in getting the lad fixed up. You alright to come with us?" John looked the old man up and down while he lifted the semi-conscious child just as Mycroft rattled the keys to the Landrover.

"I'll drive," he said, striding to the door.

The man nodded in answer to John's question, holding his chest, still catching his breath.

"You okay to drive?" John spoke to Mycroft's moving back.

"Perfectly fine to drive, Doctor," Mycroft called over his shoulder, already at the side of the vehicle, opening the rear door for John to climb in. The old man clambered in beside them.

"Want me to show you the way to Poltair Hospital, Uncle Mycroft?" Tomas was hovering, anxious to help.

"Not necessary, my boy," Mycroft slid behind the wheel, hunting for the ignition. "I have the GPS to show me. You stay with my brother and get things started here."

"But no going down the secret passage until I get back," John called out before all the doors were closed and Mycroft had spun the wheel into a tight circle.

Fortunately, the Landrover was the perfect transport for the terrain.

"This thing tells me it's an eighteen-minute drive," Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Let's see if we can shave a little off that, shall we? Hold on, back there," he muttered, slamming the car into a higher gear and hitting the accelerator, navigating the bumpy road one-handed, as if he did such things on daily basis. With his other hand he reached for his Blackberry, giving several rapid instructions.

Holding the boy as still as possible in his arms, John kept the bitten ankle motionless. The child was asleep or unconscious and made no resistance. Thankful for small mercies, John turned at last to the old man.

"How did this happen?" he asked. "The hospital will want to know."

"My three grandsons were running back to camp and this one, my youngest," the man's face crumbled into an anxious smile, "was running to keep up with his brothers and obviously never saw the Adder until it struck him." He looked up. "Is he going to be alright?" his voice wavered a little. "I have seen snakebite before, but it was never this bad with the others, not even with the children."

"Some people are more seriously affected by venom than others," John checked the boy's breathing again. It was subdued but regular; the heartbeat a little fast. "He should be fine as soon as we can get the antidote into him … might take a few hours though. Are you able to stay with him, or do you need to contact someone?"

"I shall stay with him," the old man said. "My name is Leander Purrun," by the way," he half-smiled, his worry easing a little as they approached medical treatment. "I am the leader of our small group."

"_Romani?"_ Mycroft asked over his shoulder, as he increased the Landrover's speed still more as they hit paved road. It had been less than five minutes so far.

"Indeed we are," Purrun nodded. "Though most people call we travellers _Gypsies_," he added. "We are not always welcomed."

"And where are you camping at the moment?" Mycroft looked into the older man's eyes in the rear-view mirror, a faint smile curving his mouth as Purrun had the grace to look away.

"We are camped on a small piece of grassland not far from the house where you are staying," he admitted. "If we knew who owned the land, we would have asked for permission first, but the house is so often empty, we did not think anyone would mind."

Examining Purrun in the mirror, Mycroft smiled.

"I own the land," he said. "And you may camp there without concern for the time being."

About to quiz their driver in greater detail, Purrun realised they were screeching to a halt directly outside the large stone entrance of Poltair Hospital. It had been less than ten minutes since they had left the Cornish House.

Jumping out to open John's door, Mycroft directed the waiting medical staff to their young patient. Placing the child carefully onto a wheeled bed, Mycroft and Purrun looked at each other. Of a similar height and build, both men stood tall and self-assured.

"You have the gratitude of my camp and my family, _Mr_ ..?"

"_Holmes_," Mycroft offered his hand. "But please call me Mycroft," he added. "Things like this have a way of removing the formality between strangers."

"And you have two young children yourself, I believe?" Purrun turned towards the entrance of the building.

"You are well informed," Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Shrugging and looking momentarily awkward. "One of my Watchers," he said, nodding through the open doorway.

"Of course," Mycroft smiled. "I doubt there will be any need to move your grandson any further today, but shall we see what the general medical opinion is?" lifting his arm, he invited the older man to enter before him.

###

The roar of the larger ship's engines had been heard from miles away, before they could even see it. And that had been the problem.

Without knowing the direction from which it was approaching, it was impossible to decide which way to avoid it; which way to run.

Thus Bisset had decided to power-down _La Ciel Claire's_ own engines and wait in the darkness. The heavy swell of the English Channel reminded the Captain yet again that it was never safe to assume safety when crossing the busiest stretch of water in the Western world, and both he and Joubert were scanning as much of the horizon as they possibly could with illegally-acquired military night-binoculars. There were still no navigation light in sight, and the unpowered pitch and yaw of the boat was already becoming uncomfortable, especially for their solitary passenger, who had been sounding worse and worse for the last ten minutes as the _Clear Sky_ wallowed and skewed in whatever direction the swell felt inclined to take.

Bisset ignored the man: let him be ill. He was not about to jeopardise his livelihood to quell the seasickness of some felon avoiding the law.

The sound of engines and the rush of a massive bow-wave swept closer as – finally – Bisset managed to make out some dulled navigation lights on an enormous, elongated pile, driving heavily through the swells. The nearest to them was green, the oil tanker's starboard bow was almost upon them and still bearing their way as the Captain of the _Clear Sky_ hammered the engine ignition with his thumb, only to have the boat remain still and unresponsive beneath his fingers.

The tanker was almost on them now, Yves Joubert rushing up from the main deck, his eyes wide and a little panicky.

"Damn motors won't start," Bisset pressed and held the green starter button, but still there was no response. Of all times for the electrics to fail … he tried once more, his stomach spasmed with relief as the Pentas roared into life.

Sweeping the large ship's wheel as far and as fast to port as he could, Bisset held his breath as the sheer cliff walls of the tanker rose above the much smaller craft, already beginning to cant on the rise of the oncoming bow wave.

"There is no more time!" Joubert yelled. "It's too late … _we're all going to be crushed!_"

Sending every joule of energy he could to his precious dual engines, Bisset could only wait and pray as the black shadow of the massive tanker rode over them all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_A Debt to Be Paid – Sea, Sand and Surfing the 'Net – To the Catacombs – The Structural Cohesion of Sand – Sherlock Investigates – Where Wreckers Thrive._

#

#

The child was still asleep or unconscious in the small emergency ward of the small local hospital, a serious-looking young doctor examining the wound in careful detail.

"About how long since this happened?" she asked, quickly signing-off the request for two ampules of Zagreb antivenom and checking the boy's blood-pressure for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Alerted by the slight edge to the doctor's voice, Purrun's anxiety began to rise again. "Not more than thirty-five or forty minutes," he muttered, resting a hand on the child's forehead. It was hot. "Is there something very wrong with my grandson?"

"Some people, especially children, react worse to a bite than others," the name badge advised everyone she was to be known as Doctor Leah Henessy. "Your grandson's blood-pressure is higher than I like and I want to get it back down."

"Antihistamine and hydrocortisone in case of anaphylactoid antivenom reactions?" John was interested to see how techniques had changed. The last time he had to deal with poisonous bites was with Afghanistan's odd few venomous snakes and occasionally, a nasty scorpion sting. It had been a while since he'd seen an adder-bite on his home-turf, as it were.

Henessy looked up appraisingly. "Doctor?" she asked, giving John the once-over.

"Watson," John held out his hand. "John Watson. I locum in London."

"Not many of these up there, I suspect," Henessy shook his hand briefly, returning to take the child's blood pressure yet again. One hundred and twenty-five over ninety and rising; uncomfortably high for a small boy "How old is he?" Henessy watched the nurse prepare the slow infusion of the antivenom in a saline drip.

"Only six, nearly seven," Purrun's voice was almost a whisper. "But he's healthy and strong; surely there will be no serious problems?"

"We will have to wait and see how his systems react to the antivenom," the doctor set up an automatic pressure-cuff around the child's upper arm. It would take a reading every two minutes and beep loudly if certain thresholds were crossed.

"Do you want anyone to come and stay with the boy?" Mycroft understood only too well how he would feel if Julius was the one lying in the bed. "The boy's mother?"

"Yes, yes," Leander Purrun turned, nodding. "It would be best if my daughter were here. Can she be brought?"

"She can, and will," Mycroft nodded. "How do I reach your camp?"

Less than five minutes later and John swore loudly for the second time as Mycroft threw the Landrover madly into a steep turn that led down to a deeply pitted and unpaved track. There were extensive ruts here, he noticed; only a very heavily-laden vehicle could have sunk so far into the soft ground.

Hanging on for his life, John turned his head to look across at Mycroft who was focused upon the upcoming road with a grim determination.

"Problem, Doctor?" the elder Holmes, though driving like a demon, sounded perfectly relaxed.

"Not used to seeing this side of you is all," John almost bounced out of his seat at the next bump when he was sure the vehicle had gone airborne. As his coccyx slammed back down into the seat, he swore again, quietly and viciously. "You might find this car goes faster when all four wheels are in contact with the road at the same time, you know," he managed in a surprisingly normal tone.

"_Apologies_, Doctor," Mycroft compressed his lips as he swerved from one side of the track to the other and back again. "My current condition must be getting the better of me. I am so terribly sorry ..." he slowed fractionally, slammed down a gear, navigated a sharp turn, then rammed the speed back up as his foot made friends with the accelerator once again.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" John braced one hand against the arm-rest and the other against the door.

"No idea what you're talking about, John," Mycroft saw the vans parked up ahead and brought the Landrover to a sharp halt. He looked at the clock on the dash. "Eight-and-a-half minutes," he said in a distinctly satisfied voice. "Now to find the boy's mother."

Leander Purrun's daughter was waiting for them.

"Is my son still breathing?" she asked calmly.

"Yes, he's still breathing," John was gentle. "Although they're probably going to keep him in the hospital at least overnight. Do you want to bring any of his things with you?"

"You will take me there?" she asked, surprised, bundling a few things into a duffle bag. "I am a stranger to you."

"I too have a young son, Madam," Mycroft met her eyes as he opened the back door of the car. "When you are ready."

"One moment," the woman ran back towards her van, emerging only seconds later with a weary looking long-eared toy rabbit. It had seen far better days.

"It is his comfort," she shook her head stuffing the soft yellow plaything into the bag. "He is still a baby though he tries to be as old as his brothers."

Even though the return trip to Poltair was much more sedate, Mycroft still managed a decent run once they hit the tarmac.

The boy was still in the emergency ward when they arrived, although Henessy was able to give them all a warmer smile than the last time they had seen her.

"Blood-pressure's already dropping," she smiled. "Almost back to normal now and his breathing's eased. You are the child's mother?" she turned to the woman who had been speaking to Purrun, taking her elbow and leading her to the boy's bedside.

"Once again, I am in your debt," Purrun pressed Mycroft's hands with his own. "It is a debt I will repay in one way or another," he said seriously.

"Consider it a service from one father to another," Mycroft smiled. "Do you need a lift back to your camp or are you going to stay here?"

"I will stay with my family and will arrange for one of my people to collect me later," he smiled. "My daughter has one of these phones that need no wires."

"If there is anything else we can do to help you, please do not hesitate to send a message to my house," Mycroft said. "If the child needs anything, let me know and he shall have it."

Patting his hand again, Purrun smiled. "You are a good man," he said. "This will not be forgotten."

###

Fortunately, the walk down to the beach in front of the Cornish house was a wide, grassy path on a gentle slope, and both the twins were able to manage it quite well by themselves, rather proud of their increasing independence. Cate had her arms full of towels, sunscreen, drinks, snacks, hats and, most importantly, her laptop.

One of the main reasons she had wanted to get away from London was her writing.

Her first novel and the one which had taken her away from being a full-time academic was _The English Spy_ which, while not cracking the best-seller list, had still done extremely well for a first-time novelist, had made her publishers very happy and had become the first in an agreed string of three books. Her second, _An Expert in Lies_, was doing fractionally better than the first one, especially in the international markets and America, which was a very satisfying feeling. The problem now though, was the third one.

Cate had an entire notebook of jotted comments and ideas orbiting the notions flitting through her thoughts. There was a great range of things she _could_ write about, but they lacked a single cohesive thread to pull it all together and become the spine of the complete story.

She had hoped that sometime away from London, away from her usual routine might shake something loose. It wasn't that she was blocked, but Cate had been dancing around a nebulous idea for weeks now and was increasingly frustrated that it was so tantalisingly close and yet seemed as vague as ever.

Finally arriving down at the beach, she looked around. Tomas had brought down several deckchairs and a couple of massive beach-umbrellas the previous evening, leaving everything well above the high-tide mark.

The tiny beach was lovely.

Secluded, private and peaceful. There was a trickle of freshwater running down from the hillside and which had formed a thin rivulet down one end of the beach. The lack of salt in the water was evidenced by the profusion of grasses and wildflowers that had colonised both sides of the shallow stream. There was a faint hum of bees.

The beach was pale yellow powdery sand, almost white; it was so clean, with a few strands of rapidly drying green weed on the rounded rocks at the waterline. The tide was pretty much out at this time of the day, but there was a wide shallow pool beside one of the larger, flatter rocks which didn't appear to be going anywhere. It all looked very inviting.

Dumping her cargo onto the beach, Cate moved one of the deckchairs closer to the pool, opening one of the massive umbrellas and staking it into the sand behind the chair.

"Now darlings, remember," she made sure both twins were looking at her. "You must not go in the sea without mummy or daddy beside you, until you are all grown up. Can you remember that? The sea is very strong and can carry children away, and I would be very sad if that happened."

"What about Uncle Shellock and Uncle John?" Blythe was curious. "Can they go in the sea?"

"I don't think you'll get Uncle Sherlock anywhere near the sea, my love," Cate smiled at her daughter, the image of the tall, pale-skinned man in swimming trunks was on the edge of the surreal. "But yes. If Sherlock or John are on the beach, you can ask them to come into the sea with you, but you must always be with a grown up, alright?"

"Can we go in there?" Jules pointed to the shallow pool. With its clean water and sandy bottom, the pale blue ripples were begging to be splashed in.

"Yes, you can go in the pool when mummy or daddy or Nanny Nora are here to make sure you don't fall over."

Satisfied that everyone knew the rules, Cate made sure both twins were once again liberally slathered with waterproof sunscreen, that both wore hats and that she was going to be able to watch over them when she sat back in the chair.

Within seconds, both children were up to their knees in the warmed pool.

Lifting out her laptop, Cate booted it up and waited for everything to settle before she could begin playing with some ideas in writing. It was a shame she was so far from the house which had Wi-Fi, as it was always useful to be able to pull information from the internet whenever an idea struck, but being without the 'net wasn't all that bad.

And then Cate realised the little broadcast icon on her ultrabook had lit up.

It couldn't possibly be.

But it was. As she opened up a browser to Google, everything was right there, and very swiftly, too. How entirely odd.

The beach was Wi-Fi enabled. She would have to tell Mycroft.

And that had actually given her another idea … mysterious technology in strange places. Cate was sure she could work that in somewhere … perhaps something to do with a virtual environment that spies might use now instead of a bricks-and-mortar building? Spy headquarters were so old-fashioned these days. Who needed them?

But she was still missing the central backbone to her various plots: something to hang everything on and so she sat, watching the twins splashing around and chewed her thumb.

###

By the time Mycroft and John finally returned to the Cornish house it was late in the morning and the sun was starting to become very warm.

Stepping out of the Landrover into the heat and quickly pulling off his jacket, John nodded at Mycroft's bare legs. "Never thought I'd see you in anything but one of your suits," he said, "but I should have realised you're always going to be one step ahead of the pack, aren't you?"

Smiling blandly but saying nothing, Mycroft walked into the house and out through the kitchen where Mrs Compton was indulging her love of the culinary with what looked to be the preparation for a gargantuan spread. There were already several different cakes out and cooling and if that wasn't bread in the cooking, then John didn't know what it was.

"If Mr Sherlock tries to steal another one of my good pans for his experiments, Mr Mycroft, I shall have words," the older woman smiled, but raised her eyebrows in serious admonishment as she began whipping heavy cream for some outrageous dessert.

"Heaven forbid, Nora," Mycroft ducked his head, hiding a smile and keeping his voice grave. "Leave it to me."

The makeshift lab was looking anything but by now, as Sherlock stood back and watched Tomas tighten the last couple of clamps around an intricate series of distillation flasks.

"That do?" the boy asked, looking between the tall man and the convoluted tree of glassware behind him.

"For now," Sherlock tapped his thumb against his chin. "We may need to set up a second series later, but I won't know that until I begin to get some results … ah _John_," the younger Holmes smiled. "About time. Tomas and I were just about to throw caution to the winds and enter the catacombs without you."

"I must spend some time with my family or Cate will never let me hear the end of it," Mycroft looked at his nephew. "Do not let my brother inveigle you into doing anything you would rather not," he said, turning to look at John. "I leave the safety of the party in your hands, Doctor," he added. "Happy hunting." Turning to head for the front door, Mycroft paused and leaned back. "Do leave Nanny Nora's kitchen alone, Sherlock," he said. "You know how upset she becomes when you murder one of her pots."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock folded his arms. "Are we _finally_ ready to view this mysterious entrance to the Underworld?" he demanded. "Such delay is not assisting the purpose of our visit."

"Then let's go," John swept an arm towards the door. "Tomas, lead the way."

###

Enjoying the stroll down the gentle slope to the beach, Mycroft inhaled the warmed, salty air and smiled to himself. Whatever happened, this was not a bad life. He would find a way out of this troubling situation and enjoy everything his existence held for him, determined not to allow his life be governed by assumed misfortune.

Reaching the edge of the grass that petered out into the warm sand of the beach; he surveyed the domestic scene before him and felt an enormous sense of satisfaction wash over him.

His wife was sitting beneath the shade of a large umbrella facing the children but working on her laptop, no doubt tussling with the plot for her latest novel. He was still irrationally pleased that the attraction of writing kept her from full-time engagement with the university, though he would likely never tell her so, nor would he put any obstacle in her way should she ever decide to return to the academy. Only in the privacy of his own thoughts did he admit that he liked the idea of his wife being at home with his children. He knew it was politically incorrect these days, but in his heart of hearts, he couldn't help it.

The twins were having one of their intensely serious conversations and given the fact that Blythe seemed to be advising Julius on the right way of making a sand castle, then construction of some sort appeared to be the argument at hand.

Mycroft experienced a surge of pleasure at the sight of his children playing in the sun and suddenly came to the knowledge that he truly adored them, had done from the moment he had seen them born. How odd that it took the forced restraint of his higher analytical abilities for him to be able to recognise this fact as a conscious act.

Walking towards the little group, it was clear that his daughter was explaining to his son that there was _his_ way of making _sands cassels_ and then there was the _right_ way. At times, Blythe could be quite the martinet; Mycroft wondered idly where she got it from.

"Hello, darling, you finally made it," Cate looked up from her laptop, watching as he brought another one of the deckchairs closer to the pool, copying her setup with the second umbrella. Heaving a quiet sigh of pleasure as he sank down into the relaxing hammock of canvas, Mycroft turned to face her.

"You missed all the excitement," he said.

"Excitement?"

He recounted the events of the child and the snake and Leander Purrun, but carefully omitted the detail of his brief rally-driving career.

"Well, I have my own piece of news," Cate tipped her laptop towards him. "Look," she said, pointing to the illuminated beacon icon.

He looked and … _ah_… kept his face purposely virtuous.

Cate wasn't fooled for one second. "You knew already," she accused. "There's no way a signal could reach all the way from the house, so how on earth do I get a Wi-Fi uplink down here?"

Mycroft linked his fingers across his stomach and smiled brightly. "It's a secret," he said. "_Classified_. If I told you, I'd have to have you arrested."

"How can I be arrested if you are the one who told me?" she raised both eyebrows. "Surely by rights, _you_ should be the one arrested?"

"Rank hath its privileges," he smiled back insouciantly.

Snorting in mild disgust, Cate returned to her novel, allowing Mycroft to focus attention on the children.

Jules had completely ignored his sister's dire warnings of his architectural failings and, despite the fact that she was correct in her advice, he had soldiered on, only to watch as effort after effort collapsed into a soft mound of unidentifiable sand.

This was not acceptable.

"How do I do this, Daddy?" Jules turned to his father with a look of extreme frustration, his little mouth tight and scowling.

"You have to pack the sand in harder … when you put the sand in the bucket … here, let me show you."

Lifting her Raybans from her face, Cate watched jubilantly as her husband, the stiff, besuited, Master-of-all-he-surveyed-in-Whitehall, got down onto his hands and knees and proceed to give his young son an explanation of the laws of gravity and its effect on the structural cohesion of damp sand.

Her own curiosity aroused by this strange new factor in _sands cassels_-fabrication, Blythe crawled over and Cate watched on with absolute fascination as Mycroft spent the next fifteen minutes showing his young offspring how to make the perfect sand castle.

Standing and brushing loose sand off everything, he reclaimed his chair, a pleased smile on his face.

"If you're going to sit in the sun, you should put some sunscreen on, you know," she grinned, handing him a tube of something white and smelling vaguely of bergamot.

"I am planning to lie back here and contemplate the pleasing infinity of the universe," Mycroft was as good as his word and closing his eyes, crossed his long legs at the ankles and sighed a relaxing sigh of pleasure.

With the warmth of the day and the soft sounds of the water and the quiet babble of the children, he was asleep in minutes.

###

"Bet you can't work it out," Tomas grinned madly, switching his gaze between Sherlock and John's faces and the bookcase.

Sherlock's stare was intense, as his eyes flitted from one side of the bookcase to the other. There were several anomalies: the extra-thick shelves; the ornate carving across the top of the bookcase; the nature of the books themselves, even the uneven quality of the floor around the base of the shelves. Any of these might be the key, but he wanted further verification. The ornate carving at the top was too high to be of easy use for the average sized person at the time the house had been built; the thickness of the shelves was a constant throughout the bookcase and lacked anomaly, and the floor showed no recent indications of unusual usage. This only left …

"Who was it that found the way in the end?" he asked, idly, scanning the books.

"Aunty Cate came up with an idea, but Uncle Mycroft was the one who made it work," he responded cheerfully.

_If Cate spotted it, then it was most probably in the books_ … and then he saw.

Reaching up, he rested his fingers on the leading edge of Johnson's narrative and pressed it firmly. There was a loud _click_, a shimmy of shelving, and the entire case slid free from the stone wall behind.

The large, dark entrance was again revealed, with the same faint rush of salty air.

For Tomas, it was just as exciting the second time as the first. He looked at John, watching a wide grin curl the blonde man's mouth as his brows rose in accord with his delight.

Everyone loved a good, old-fashioned secret passage.

Sticking his head into the darkness, Sherlock sniffed several times. There was something foetid underlying the cool sea-breeze, something that whispered of alchemy and the taint of the industrial.

"Torches?" he held his hand out to Tomas without looking, grasping the same bright square flashlight that his brother had used.

"Better stay behind us for a bit," John murmured to the boy. "Just until we're sure everything is safe."

"I have been in here before, you know," Tomas' feathers were a little ruffled. "And I thought I was supposed to be the guide for _you_?"

"He has a point," Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at his flatmate.

Sighing, John agreed and stepped aside, albeit reluctantly. "But don't do anything to show us how much you know," he said. "One show-off in the party is quite enough."

Ignoring the implied slur, Sherlock waved Tomas to the fore. "Lead on," he said, flashing the beam of his torch all the way around the inside of the entrance, gathering and compiling every micron of data he could.

"There's a kind of flat open space just inside here to the left," Tomas' voice threw a faint echo as he stepped fully into the darkness. "Probably so more than one person could stand here while the door was being opened or closed, I suppose."

"That's exactly what it was for," Sherlock was looking at everything, even getting down onto one knee to rub his fingers across the cool stone flags beneath their feet, smelling the dust on his fingertips. "This was a smuggler's passage," he added. "Many of these old houses had something similar."

"That's what Uncle Mycroft said too," Tomas acknowledged as he walked on into the gloom.

Suppressing a smile at Sherlock's quiet snort, John followed, checking behind that the door had been securely wedged open and that nothing was hanging down or looked like it was about to land on their heads.

"How far does it go on like this?" the younger Holmes was right on Tomas' shoulder, his additional height enabling him to see further into the pitch blackness than the boy.

"Not far, and then there are some steps going down to another and wider area with a table and chairs and stuff."

"_Stuff_ is an insufficiently descriptive term," Sherlock muttered critically, looking above his head at the carved ceiling; it was semi-smooth and dry, a mostly uniform shade of dull red with duller patches of grey algae. He wanted a sample. "Hold on."

Taking out one of the fine latex gloves, Sherlock scraped not only a sample of the algae into a clear plastic packet, but also a few grams of the red base upon which it was growing.

"If you want to see the place that Uncle Mycroft touched the wall and got goop all over his hand, it's just down here," Tomas pointed.

"Sherlock has to make sure we don't miss anything that might be important," John cautioned the boy. "Until we know exactly what is was that made your uncle sick, then we have to look at every detail," he added. "Imagine this was a page of numbers and some of them were blanked out," he asked. "You couldn't do any real analysis of them, could you?"

"Not unless you could work out what the hidden numbers were," Tomas looked thoughtful. "Can you do that?" he asked of Sherlock. "Can you see things that aren't see-able, I mean, visible?" Cate's nephew was really curious now.

"It's what he's best at doing," John grinned. "Nobody else can see invisible things like Sherlock Holmes."

"What _is_ that smell?" Sherlock took another deep inhale, hunting around for the source of the odiferous draught.

John shone his torch around, also looking. "Dunno," he said. "I noticed it a bit when the bookcase opened, but it's definitely stronger down here. Smells like a chem lab, or like things you'd smell on a farm, maybe."

"On a farm?" Sherlock turned to his friend.

"Yeah, you know," John was still scanning the walls with the torch. "Chemicals farmers use on their fields: pesticides and stuff like that."

"_Stuff_ is an insufficiently descriptive term," Tomas quipped smartly, grinning and dodging back as John gave him a raised-eyebrow look.

"Don't you start getting smart with me," he said. "Hard enough to deal with one genius, let alone two of you."

"I'm not a genius," Tomas shook his head. "I'm just copying him," he nodded at Sherlock.

"The thing with the numbers," Sherlock was focused on the rock surrounding them but it was clear he was speaking to Tomas. "Likely Genius level on the revised Stanford-Binet scale, probably turn up as brilliant on Raven's matrices as well," he muttered, following a fainter formation of rock along the right-hand wall.

Tomas stood quietly in the dark, taking the information in. "You think I'm smart?" he asked, cautiously. His 'thing with the numbers' had been the cause of endless teasing from his siblings, and he wasn't about to invite any more.

"Not _smart_," Sherlock shone the torch in the boy's face before dropping it a fraction. "Intelligent," he said. "Highly intelligent. _Genius_."

Tomas laughed shortly. "You're kidding, right?"

"He never kids," John shook his head dolefully. "You're entirely doomed to be a clever clogs for the rest of your life. Now come on and show us where Mycroft picked up the goop," he added, stepping further into the tunnel.

Hardly knowing which way was up for a moment, Tomas shook his head to clear his thoughts. "It's along here somewhere, on the way down the steps, I think it was."

And _there_ were the steps.

Equally suddenly, the smoothly cut walls and curved roof gave way to a much coarser finish, the verticals hacked far more roughly from the solid rock than the rest of the passage closer to the house.

"This is where the real masons let the paid muscle do the rest of the work," Sherlock nodded, still tracking the lighter grade of ore with the beam of his torch. "Either there was some speed required, or the experienced miners were taken away to perform another task," he added, placing his feet lightly upon the descending stone steps. The formation of rock he'd been following blossomed into an unusual orange-yellow chalky substance framing an inner core of crumbly white-grey rock. Parts of it had already crumbled onto the side of the steps. A seam of raw tin, parts of which were dull and chalky, while other parts were shiny and slick.

"This is where Uncle Mycroft put his hand," Tomas was about to reach up and show the tall dark-haired man, but his wrist was rapidly seized and held away.

"Gloves, John," Sherlock had his own gloves on and was already in the process of taking a significant sample of the oily, greasy substance that clung almost like a gel to the granite beneath it. He dug into the soft rock to a depth of several centimetres, and still the shining ooze was visible. It looked as if it might have permeated the entire seam. How extraordinary. The unpleasantly chemicalised odour present in the air appeared especially concentrate at this point. Carefully sniffing the fingers of his disposable gloves, Sherlock drew back sharply as the caustic reek threatened to burn the inside of his nose.

"I think we have a potential suspect," he sounded intrigued. "Something is interacting with and contaminating the ore." Putting everything carefully into the heavy-duty collection bags, Sherlock turned back to Cate's relative. "On we go," he nodded.

Carrying on down the stone steps, the three of them came to the much wider space, still roughly hewn from the rock, but at least the floor had been properly levels and clad in smooth flagstones. Just as Tomas had described, the space held a crude table and equally rough chairs.

"I remembered we'd need these," the boy grinned again as he shook a box of matches. Going to the table he immediately lit all of the candles that had been in use only a few days prior.

A soft glow brought the room into focus and John slid his torch-beam up and down the walls as Sherlock walked around looking for anything anomalous that Mycroft might have touched in some way, but there was nothing other than dust.

"_Whoa!_" John's surprise was clear as two beams of light cut back to him to see the blonde man staring interestedly at the machete half-buried in the solid wood beam.

"For hacking at ropes and wood, John, _not_ people," Sherlock observed. "Look at the slight serration: it's a cutter, not a killer."

"Still wouldn't fancy anyone coming at me with it," John looked unimpressed.

"This is what the smugglers would have used to open their cargo?" Tomas was also intrigued, trying to pull the blade of the knife free from its prison. It was rusted tight. John had an attempt, but it would take more than a pair of hands to pull that particular rabbit from its hat. "Is there anything here worth taking a closer look at?" he scanned the broken boxes and piled drifts of detritus.

Sherlock had already taken samples of the dust but doubted he would find anything significant in it. "Let's keep going," he said.

"There's some more steps down this way," Tomas pointed with a beam of light. "And then we get to a fake landslide."

"A what?" John turned to check he'd heard correctly. "A fake landslide? How did they fake that?"

"More to the point, John surely, is _why_?" Sherlock was already playing his torch ahead, down the several steps in view.

"Uncle Mycroft said it was probably to stop anyone following people back up to the house," Tomas kept walking downwards.

"Well yes, that's clearly the purpose," Sherlock sounded a fraction testy at his brother's praises being heralded so promptly by their young guide. "But not the question I asked, which was _why_ it was necessary," he looked ahead as they came to the fabricated blockade. "It must surely have been a last-ditch form of evasion, allowing the house owner to gain a measure of distance from any pursuit."

"You mean, the smugglers might have been chased back up here by police?" Tomas found the idea exciting. It would have been an epic chase.

"Not the police; they weren't mobilised until after the County and Borough Police Act of eighteen fifty-six," Sherlock stepped closer to the apparent blockage of rocks and earth. "Back in the day, it would have been the local militia, often in the pay of the local Lord of the Manor in any case." He pressed a careful palm against the surface of the blockage, nodding happily to himself as the hand met a far different level of resistance than might have been anticipated. "Very clever," he murmured, moving towards the left wall of the landslide.

"There's a big iron gate behind this first lot of stuff," Tomas supplied. "It was all rusted up, but I gave it a kick and it opened all right," he added. "And then there's another fake landslide on the other side as well."

Frowning, Sherlock turned to John. "Why on both sides of the gate?" he wondered. "On the lower edge, in order to fool any pursuit from the outside, is sensible, but why on this side as well?"

"As an escape route, in case the militia came looking for them at the house?"

""That would be the most likely rationale," Sherlock located the bars of the old iron gate beneath the cleverly constructed clay-coated canvas and pushed. It swung open more or less easily, allowing them to pass through. Sherlock looked back over his shoulder when they were several steps away.

"Even knowing what we know, and at this proximity, it's still easy to see why any pursuers might be completely fooled into thinking they could pursue no further," he smiled a brief, pleased smile. "There was a clever mind behind this."

Continuing down the steps, their torches lighting up the walls enclosing them in this dark, quiet space, it took just over a minute before a glowing light developed further down, the acoustics of the tunnel also beginning to change as the carved stone steps lost their straight lines, moulding themselves into bedrock. One last turn and they found themselves in the dimmed sunlit entrance to a cave opening onto a small, secluded cove.

With the sea in front of them, cliffs surrounded the beach on two sides, while the remaining side offered a steep and dusty bank: not one most people would willingly attempt to clamber down without the aid of a rope. Yet there was a distinct track that zigzagged from the bottom to the eventual crest, together with multiple signs that it hadn't been so very long ago that a number of people had made the steep climb.

And just as his brother had noticed before him, Sherlock observed the deep groove cut into the soft sand by the keel of a heavy boat. Given the tidal averages in these parts, the scar was at least two weeks old and would soon vanish beneath the shifting sands. Sliding his hands into his suit pockets, the younger Holmes looked around, especially out to sea.

Outside of a clear but narrow passage of open water, there was a complete forest of jagged brows rocks at this time of low-tide, which stretched for as far as he could see around the headland. At high-tide, and especially in a storm, the rocks would be barely submerged and utterly lethal to any kind of hulled craft which ventured beyond the safe channel.

"Not just smugglers," he mused aloud. "Wreckers, too."

"Wreckers?" John followed his friend's gaze out to the rocks. "Ah," he nodded. "That might explain why they built the fake landslide on the outside of the gate in the first place," he added. "So if anyone was left alive, none of the poor sods could ever find a way out of this place in time to send out an alarm. _Bastards_."

"But that is far more recent," Sherlock indicated the sandy scar. "No more than twelve or fourteen days old, I'd say. It was a heavy craft that made such a cut."

"Tourists?" John wondered. "Local fishermen?"

"Tourists would be unlikely to know how to navigate the secure channel to reach the beach at high-tide," Sherlock shook his head. "And why would anyone with a local berth need to haul up on a tiny cove like this?" he pursed his lips. "No," he added. "There's more going on here than is immediately visible."

John turned to his friend and smiled. "But seeing the invisible is what you're brilliant at, don't forget."

The younger Holmes lifted both eyebrows and smiled back.

###

The hurtling cliff of the tanker's bow was almost upon _the Clear Sky_ before the inevitable surge of the huge bow-wave lifted the smaller vessel up and threw her aside as lightly as a piece of flotsam on a spring tide.

Great floods of frothing, icy water washed backwards and forwards over the deck, the formidable Penta-engines screaming as Bisset wrenched them into full power, tearing his boat away from the insatiable vacuum of water caused by the downdraft of the tanker's turbine propellers.

If they were caught beneath the bow, or dragged under by the enormous suction of water, they would all die, drowned or mangled, it would make little difference.

And so the Captain of _La Ciel Claire_ poured on the power, held his breath and prayed.

In less than a minute, though the reality of it felt several times as long, the hulking carrier had moved itself away to port, as the smaller and still-invisible craft kept moving to starboard. The gap between them, measured at first in mere meters, became boat lengths and then, finally, an unguessable distance, but one safe enough for Bisset to release his breath and take his beloved engines down to a middling-idle.

That had been _too_ close.

But they were through the worst of the Channel and now only had another couple of hours before they made for St Mary's and the discreet little inlet where they could hide up during the daylight hours before refuelling and making for the Cornish coast. One more day and one more night and this venture would be finished.

Checking the chart-box, Bisset made sure no water had affected the very expensive and extensively amended charts not only of the Scilly isles where they were headed now, but also of the coastline where they'd be bearing the following night: a small, secluded cove where wreckers used to thrive.

###

**Note:**

_Though attempting to maintain the usual schedule, my work is manic at the moment, thus the next update might not be for two weeks. Apologies if so._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_Like a Rabbit – A Convenient Resting Place – They Will Know – A Deadly Black Pit – Can You Catch? – The Cost of a Life – A Debt, Still._

#

#

After a full morning down on the little beach, they had brought the children back up for their midday meal after which the twins fell immediately asleep, enabling the grownups to have a relaxed lunch of their own, for a change.

Sherlock and John had taken Tomas and headed off for a walk around the headland, though whether that had anything to do with the investigation or not was unknown.

So they were alone for lunch, sitting at a small round table in the kitchen garden, surrounded by perfumed, heavy-headed roses and the chirp of grasshoppers. It was rather pleasant.

"Does the child need anything? Or can we help his mother?" Cate looked across the lunch table at Mycroft. "Are we able to see if he's alright?"

"We can ring the hospital and check on the boy's progress, if you wish," Mycroft savoured the light chill of a rather good Australian Chardonnay which harmonised very nicely with their lunch of fresh local crab and green salad. "But the hospital is unlikely to tell us much other than his general condition."

"I think we should be a little more supportive than that, if we can," she raised her brows. "There may be out-of-pocket expenses, all sorts of things. I doubt Mr Purrun's group have private health insurance and a child in hospital can be expensive."

"You want to pay the medical expenses?" Mycroft smiled into his glass. He remembered a time when a similar suggestion from him about her _own_ medical costs had been met with a stern rebuff.

"And don't look so smug," she added, sipping from her own glass. "Nobody has to know. We could ask the hospital people simply to say nothing at all, but to send any bills to us."

Cate paused, widening her eyes as Nora placed a dish of summer pudding and cream down on the table between them. There was no way they'd be able to fit anything else in after one of her famous lunches. The older woman walked away, smiling happily to see them enjoying their food.

"You wouldn't be able to do anything, even if you were to ask," Mycroft swirled the golden wine in his glass and continuing the conversation. He smiled.

"And why's that?"

Saying nothing, her husband merely met her gaze and allowed his mouth to curve slightly higher at the corners.

Cate realised. Of course.

"You beat me to it," she looked glad. "Of course you would; you've already fixed the entire thing up, haven't you? But _still_," she added. "I'd like to go and see if the child or his mother needs anything the hospital can't give them."

"Then we shall take a short drive after lunch. Sherlock may need additional supplies as well, so we might even take a turn into Penzance, if you're willing?"

"As long as Nora can keep an eye on the twins," Cate gave in, dipping a spoon into the brilliant scarlet sauce of the dessert and tasted the results of their housekeeper's culinary expertise. "Oh God …" she closed her eyes and allowed the sensation to dissolve in her mouth. It was beyond decent.

"There's no immediate rush, is there?" Mycroft smiled at her blissful expression, taking a small portion of the fragrant sweet for himself and adding a dollop of clotted cream.

"I hope you'll be feeling energetic enough to work all these extra calories off," Cate murmured, giving in and helping herself to a dish of the dessert. And the irresistible cream. "Or we're both going to be bigger than this house."

His lips twisting in the same subtle manner, Mycroft said nothing but looked upon his wife with indulgent contemplation.

"I feel certain there will be means of expending all manner of energy before the day is out," he said in great good humour. Dipping a finger into the sweet juice of the pudding, he sucked it gently away.

Cate's stomach did a full three-sixty degree somersault as his blue gaze remained constant and unwavering, a slight flush rising up her neck at his unabashed desire and shameless intent.

"You are probably right," she blinked at him slowly, refusing to be provoked by such arrant lechery. "If we don't fall into a sugar-coma first," she added, sipping the white wine.

Travelling companionably in the Landrover, they headed back to Poltair after lunch, to bump into Leah Henessy by the main reception desk.

"Oh, hi, back again?" she smiled, looking at Mycroft and then across at Cate.

"My wife," he introduced them.

"I was concerned about the little boy," Cate held the younger woman's attention. "Is there anything he needs or wants, or that his mother would like for him?" she asked. "I wouldn't want there to be any embarrassment on anyone's part, but if there is anything, we can get it and you might say it's from the hospital … could you?"

Henessy lifted her eyebrows. "Actually, there's nothing you can really get the lad that he hasn't already been given, although if you go in and see him now, be warned that he's a little upset."

"Upset, why?" Mycroft frowned.

"Better ask his mother," Leah nodded towards one of the side wards. "Go and see the boy for yourself, he's doing fine, but I'm keeping him in for a couple of days, to be absolutely sure."

Walking quietly into the indicated doorway, Cate saw there were only two occupied beds in the long room, and only one with a small boy.

A dark-haired woman sat beside the bed talking quietly to the child.

"Hello, again," Mycroft greeted the boy's mother, who stood, smiling.

"You have come to see my baby is getting better?" she smiled, nodding. "He is, but he is unhappy he has to stay here alone."

"He misses his family?" Cate looked understanding. "But you are here; won't they let you stay with him?"

"_Ah_," Purrun's daughter smiled, resigned. "He is having a poor time of it," she said. "He misses his plaything and there is nothing I can do about it."

"But you brought it with you, I saw you put it into the bag," Mycroft frowned again. "Was it lost?"

"Not lost," the child's mother looked uncomfortable. "The nurses said it was too unhygienic to sleep with in here and asked me to take it away," she sighed. "It is a foolish thing, but he always has it with him at night and will find it hard to sleep with it gone."

"The hospital told you to take your boy's toy away?" Cate was scandalised. "That's outrageous."

The boy's mother shrugged. "What can I do?" she said helplessly.

Mycroft had been watching Cate's face as a particular expression darkened her eyes. He knew precisely what was in her mind and wagered he could predict almost to the syllable what she was going to say. His years of necessary diplomacy came to the fore.

"I have a suggestion, my love," he smiled mildly at Purrun's daughter, drawing Cate to one side.

"I've got a suggestion for the Matron or doctors or whoever told that child he couldn't have his toy," Cate growled, her sensibilities offended.

"While it would be a simple matter to ensure the hospital authorities rescind their _dictat_, it would require a disproportionate amount of effort."

"Shotgun to kill a mosquito?" Cate was unmollified.

"Of that nature, yes," Mycroft slid an arm around her shoulders, leading her towards the exit. "There is an easier way."

Which was why, a few minutes later, Cate found herself in the same situation as John had only that morning. The ride between Poltair Hospital and Penzance was less than five minutes, but Cate was in no mood for a scenic trip. Mycroft was motoring far too demurely for her liking.

"I know you can drive better than this," she muttered, still irked by the hospital policy. "Put some wellie into it, please."

Without a word, Mycroft's foot pressed the accelerator down to the legal edge and the quiet road flew past.

Cate recalled seeing a shop just down the hill from the supermarket. It looked the sort of place that would have all kinds of weird and wonderful objects in it, as well as … toys.

"What kind of thing was it?" turning to him, Cate realised she didn't even know what it was they were looking for.

"Some kind of long-eared knitted rabbit affair," he wrinkled his nose, thinking. "Pale yellow," he added, looking around.

"Over here," Cate touched his elbow, leading him to a side wall stuffed with various soft and knitted things. "Any of these look close?"

There were large wicker baskets of teddy bears, long-legged rag dolls, squeaky fluffy birds and, for some reason, bright green fish. No rabbits, knitted or otherwise.

Going to the front counter, Cate smiled at the woman adding up numbers on the back of an envelope.

"Can I help you find something?" she asked, dropping the pen and smiling.

"Rabbits," Cate nodded seriously. "Knitted, long-eared and yellow. If you have any."

"Always good when a customer knows exactly what they're after," the woman puffed out her cheeks, thinking. "Not sure if we … hang on a minute," she stopped, suddenly pensive, turning around and looking into the body of the shop. "There may be something … hang on," and she dashed through a doorway behind the desk.

There were several muffled thumps and the sound of cardboard boxes being moved.

"How about …" the owner came back through the door, a pleased grin on her face as she plonked something sunflower-bright down onto the counter. "_This?_"

A yellow, long-eared rabbit, not knitted, but definitely of the brightest golden that could be imagined. It was also one of the most unattractive creations Cate had ever seen. Sitting upright like a kangaroo, the thing's ears were down to its feet and it wore an expression of slightly manic surprise but, _God_, it was so _yellow_.

"This is an exceptionally ugly animal," she lifted her eyes back to the owner.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" the woman smiled happily. "Been trying to sell it for ages but nobody wants it," she added, pushing it a little further forward on the counter. "Except you."

"This is a rabbit?" Mycroft bent forward to examine the toy carefully.

"Long ears, big feet, whiskers," Cate looked at him sideways. "Says 'rabbit' to me," meeting the shop owner's smiled she nodded. "I'll have it, if you can add one _small_ detail for me …"

The return to Poltair took even less time than the leaving of it and Cate nodded meaningfully at the nurse as she strode right into the child's room and straight up to the bed, a white cloth bag in her hand.

The boy's mother turned a curious expression on her face.

"May I ..?" Cate indicated the side of the child's bed.

The boy looked at her wearily. Too many strange things had happened today. He felt sick. He was hot. His leg hurt and the nurse had told _maman_ to take Waggy away. He closed his eyes and was miserable.

A strange lady sat carefully on the very edge of his bed. She was talking to him … what was she saying? Something about helping someone get well? He opened his eyes.

"And it would be doing everyone a very big favour if you could look after him while you are here because nobody else wants to, you see, and he's not very well at all," Cate pulled the yellow _objet_ from the cotton bag, standing it up in front of the child.

"As you can see," she pointed to a small white bandage around the rabbit's left ankle. "He has a poorly foot, just like you do," she said. "He needs looking after for a few days, but nobody wants to do it."

It didn't look a bit like Waggy. Well, maybe a _bit_. The long ears were the same, and the strange look on his face was because he had a sore leg: perhaps that was why nobody wanted to look after him? He knew how it felt to be in a strange place and not be feeling very well.

"I'll look after him until he's better," the child lifted a hand towards the toy, blinking slowly as Cate handed it over, helping tuck it down inside the cool white sheets as two small arms wrapped around the yellow softness and the boy's eyes closed.

In only moments he was asleep.

Cate felt her wrist being held and gently squeezed. Purrun's daughter smiled at her, eyes sharing her silent gratitude.

###

Sherlock stood, perched like a long-legged black bird on the very edge of a solid granite outcrop, staring out to sea. A light ocean-breeze fluttered the curls of his hair as he looked across into the blue. From a distance he seemed like some ancient statue, carved out of the very rock on which he remained so motionless.

"What's he looking for?" Tomas turned to John who was staring in the opposite direction, back over the bracken and scrubby woodland behind them.

"Whatever he can see," John's words were vague and barely there, as he tallied the number of old pit heads in immediate sight. "There's eight of them in this area alone," he counted. "That's a hellish amount of mining going on in this small area; must have been a crazy place when it was all going on."

"The granite around here is so hard that rather than try and follow a seam when it began to run thin, it was easier to start a brand new mine-shaft a little way away and go back down that way," Tomas nodded. "That's why there's so many pits," he added, "but a lot of them join up underground, you gotta be careful going down one of those."

"Are they dangerous?" John assessed the lay of the land in front of him. It seemed solid enough.

"Oh, the land around here is pretty safe," Tomas wrinkled his nose. "But once you get into any of these old pits, then you're taking your life in your hands. There's no telling what kind of things has happened down in the dark."

"Cave-ins?"

"Oh yeah," Tomas nodded again. "Lots of those, as well as some of the more shallow galleries caving-in right the way along," he pointed. "Like that one, over there."

It took him a while to spot what the boy was pointing at, but then John saw. A long and deep trench-like cut into the ground, stretching for at least thirty yards or more. It was all overgrown now with grass and bent old trees, but you could still see what it was if you knew what you were looking at.

"Any really deep shafts around here?" John turned to look for Sherlock who had vanished.

"They're all pretty deep," Cate's nephew scanned around, "A few of them go down for a couple of hundred feet, only stopping when the lower workings used to get filled by the sea."

"You ever been down any of them?" John lifted his eyebrows, curious.

"If my mum knew I'd been down an old tin-mine, she'd skin me alive," the boy grinned. "But yeah, I have," he admitted. "They're scary places."

"What are?" Sherlock appeared at his shoulder, making him jump. "The mines? Indeed," he shoved his hands in his pockets. "A convenient resting place for many a corpse, I've no doubt."

"Murder?" John frowned. "Or just disposal?"

"Either. _Both_," Sherlock shrugged an elegant shoulder.

"Which would explain all the stories about ghosts and the hauntings that go on around here," Tomas grinned. "Every pit has at least one ghost."

"At least," Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking around. "Any mine in particular with lots of stories?"

"Around here?" Tomas made a face. "Hard to tell … every one of 'em will have tales about things that go bump in the night."

"_Do they now ..?_" the tall, dark-suited man looked contemplative.

"But there's a couple not far from the house which are supposed to be some of the deepest in the area and therefore the ones with the most bodies," the boy grinned cheekily. "I'm game to take a look if you are."

"There is no way we are letting you get anywhere near an abandoned tin-mine," John shook his head. "Your mother might threaten to skin you alive, but your uncle could actually do it."

Sherlock snorted quietly, staring at the tangle of old wood still scaffolding some of the mine shafts.

"Uncle Mycroft?" Tomas was uncertain. "But he's so nice."

Sherlock and John shared a glance.

"Yes, he's very nice, unless you annoy him and get in his way," John looked introspective.

"And then what happens?" Tomas was madly curious.

"If you get in Mycroft's way, you will very quickly find yourself in a place where you cannot annoy him anymore," Sherlock grinned brightly. "Not to worry," he added. "I'm sure your extreme youth would act in your favour."

"Yeah, but _ours_ won't," John shook his head. "No stunts, Tomas."

Looking philosophical, the youngster tipped his head in concurrence.

Turning back towards the house, they found themselves on a narrow, rutted track.

"The Gypsies have their camp further on down this track," John pointed up ahead to the roofs of caravans just visible through the scrubby trees. "Maybe they might know something?"

"Excellent idea, John," Sherlock nodded briskly. "Tomas and I will investigate one of the mines, which you practice your inimitable bedside manner and see what you can find out," he looked reflective. "Ask them if there have been any strange events in the area recently."

"Events?" John looked puzzled. "What sort of events?"

"Just ask them and see what they say," Sherlock patted Tomas on the shoulder. "Show me those deeper mines you were talking about," he said. "I want to see what condition they're in."

"Tomas do not let him persuade you to do anything stupid or dangerous," John lifted a finger. "I have no wish to explain a dead or injured relative to your Uncle Mycroft," a circumspect look came over his face. "I'm not that brave."

###

"You are one of the men who came here this morning, you took Purrun's daughter to the hospital to be with the young boy," the old woman nodded. "It is good what you have done for them."

"Always happy to help,' John smiled, engagingly.

"And why are you here now?" she asked. "If you wish to speak with Leander Purrun you will have to wait as he has gone into the village to get some supplies and won't be back until later."

"No, I've not come to speak with anyone in particular," John shook his head. "I'm only wondering if anything strange has been happening around here recently, wondered if anyone had seen or heard anything?"

"There are always things to be seen if you know how to look," the old lady narrowed her eyes and nodded sagely.

"Yes, of course," John smiled again. Keeping old ladies talking was something doctors were supposed to be good at. "But if I didn't know what I was looking for, who might be able to tell me?"

"_Ha_," strong fingers raking though her grey hair, the woman curled her lip. "Those other two grandsons of Purrun are his _Watchers_, he calls them," she said. "Anything that happens within ten miles of this place and those boys know about it; you should find them and ask."

"And where are the boys now?" John looked around in case they might be in sight right here in the camp.

"Out there, somewhere," the woman waved a careless hand, indicating the local countryside. "Like wild ponies, all of them," she sniffed. "Out all hours of the day and night, coming home to eat and sometimes to sleep."

"If you see them, will you tell them I'd like to ask them some questions?"

"_Police?_" the old eyes were suddenly sharper, as was the tone.

"Not police, no," John smiled again and shook his head. "I'm a doctor and a friend of mine staying in the house just over there is ill," he added. "We're trying to find out if there's anything in the area that might have made him sick."

"And you think the boys might be able to tell you?" she tilted her head from side-to-side. "You may be right," she said. "If I see them, I shall get them to find you."

"How will they know where I am?" John was curious.

"Trust me," she laughed shortly. "They will know."

###

"And these few around here are probably the deepest," Tomas pointed at three particular old shafts, spaced erratically within an area of several hundred square yards. It was difficult to believe that anyone would have tried to chase the elusive tin with such obsession, but people had always done strange things for money.

Of the three gaping but overgrown holes, only one seemed to have any sort of safety fence erected around it and Sherlock felt a quiet amazement more idiots hadn't fallen down the things as a result. Or perhaps they had, _but nobody knew_.

An intriguing notion.

The two least protected shafts were heavily overgrown with long hanging grasses and withies, whip-thin regrowth of trees cut down in previous years. Dangerous though it was to have these holes unfenced, nobody in their right mind could claim they were hard to spot. The only way anyone would fall down one of these would be if they deliberately entered of their own accord or … were _thrown_ down.

The grass around each hole was long and lush, the early summer heat not yet sapping the sweet juices from the stalks, rendering them straw-like and frail. This greenery was still in its first robust flush: the slightest crushing and it would be obvious to a blind man. Nobody had been near these in weeks.

"What about the fenced one?" he asked, pointing to the one that seemed, on the surface of things, to be the most well-guarded.

"I know this one's deep, but I don't know how deep," Tomas strolled towards the mine head, hands in both his pockets. "It's also a bit bigger than the others," he added. "Probably because they dug further down and brought out more stuff."

Sherlock was more interested in the ground around the pit than the shaft itself. Kneeling down, he tipped his head sideways, scanning the lie of the ground, noticing the faint lines of heavy-duty tyres crossing and re-crossing one another in the light dust.

In another second, he threw himself onto his stomach, pocket-glass at the ready as he searched for more details than might be seen by the naked eye.

"Cross-ply re-treads," he muttered. "Cheap and worn hard. No money wasted on those, unfortunately."

"You can tell what sort of tyres were here?" Tomas looked astonished. He couldn't even see a hint of a track, only red-brown dust.

Leaping back upright, Sherlock dusted himself off distractedly. "Why would a heavy-goods vehicle of an industrial-carrying capacity be here in the last week?" he wondered, looking more closely at the stout wooden fence circumnavigating the pit.

It was then he saw. _Ah_.

"See here," he pointed as Tomas craned his neck to see. "This fence has been moved several times, and within the last few days," he added. "Careful. It's unsafe."

"How can you tell?" the boy wrinkled his forehead, shaking the wooden barrier with his foot, trying valiantly to see what seemed so obvious to the tall man beside him.

"Look," Sherlock bent down and ran fingertips over several crushed stalks of grass. "These posts have been lifted out and replaced just long enough ago that new growth has not yet had an opportunity to cover the marks, and yet not _so_ long that the damaged grass has had a chance to completely die," he stood. "Given the growth-rate of the common bent fescue," he added, "and considering the time of year, as well as local humidity and sprouting -averages," he nodded knowingly. "Four days at most since the vehicle was last here, although it has been here several times before. There are multiple and underlying tracks."

"But what was it doing here?" Tomas looked around, hunting for some clue, before turning back to gaze down into the open shaft that sank down into the depths almost at his feet.

"I am beginning to formulate a hypothesis," Sherlock took two steps away, scanning a gentle rise that led away from the mine and towards the rutted track they'd been following. "It would seem tha …"

His words were cut off by a terrified scream as the fencing Tomas had just pushed his weight against suddenly gave way, hurling him head-first into the deadly blackness of the pit below.

###

John was already following his flatmate and their new young friend back down the track when the horrific cry rang out. He immediately sprinted towards the agonised sound, searching wildly for the source. It was only when he heard Sherlock's shout that he realised his friend was lying flat out over the brink of one of the old mine shafts, his fingers desperately clawing at open air.

There was no sign of Tomas and a dreadful coldness began to make itself known in his belly. "Oh, God … _no_ …" he ran.

"He's not fallen more than ten feet or so, John," Sherlock had one knee locked around the nearest upright post, although John didn't like the look of it. The slightest pull and the thing would probably give way entirely, sending his friend tumbling down into the hole after the boy he was trying to rescue. "We need rope to pull him out."

"_Are you hurt, Tomas?_" John leaned himself over the edge as much as he dared, although he couldn't see anything.  
"Not really," the teen's voice was close, though shaken and on the reedy side. Clearly the boy was scared half to death. "But there's a bit of an overhang and there's no way I'm going to be able to climb out by myself without something solid to hang onto,' he added. "I'm standing on a big chunk of dried mud in the side of the wall but there aren't many handholds and if I try and move I'm gonna fall."

"Then don't move," Sherlock sounded calm as he took off his jacket. "Can you reach this?" he asked, throwing the garment over the edge by one sleeve.

"No, it's too short," Tomas tried to stop his legs shaking so much.

"I'll go and get some rope from the camp," John muttered. "Try and keep him calm, will you?" he added, softly. "No point having him faint from fear."

"_Hurry_," Sherlock sounded tense.

John hurried.

Making it back to the traveller's camp in a world-breaking sprint, he shouted as he roared in "_Rope!_ Anyone got any rope?! A boy's fallen down one of the mines."

"_Here!_" Leander Purrun dropped the bags he was carrying, racing around to the side of a pale-green van, returning in an instant with a large coil of lightweight woven rope. "Where?"

"_This way_," John turned on his heel, haring back off down the track, hoping in his gut that nothing had happened in the interim.

If Tomas were to be seriously hurt … or worse …

Within five minutes of hearing the boy's initial cry, John was back with Purrun and another of his men who had also grabbed a coil of rope.

His chest heaving, John threw himself down on the edge, reaching backwards for the rope Purrun was already methodically paying-out.

"He's still hanging on, but I think his foothold is about to give way," Sherlock muttered too quietly for Tomas to hear. "We need to get this to him very quickly now."

"Catch, Tomas," John yelled, dangling the leading end of the rope down over the edge of the pit.

"Can't reach," the boy's voice was almost whisper-dry with fright. "It's too far away from me and if I go for it I'm going to fall; this ledge is already starting to crumble … help me _please_ …"

About to risk everything and climb down over the edge, John realised that someone was already ahead of him, as Leander Purrun, a separate rope tied beneath his arms, allowed his man to lower him slowly over the edge.

"_Come to me, boy_," he instructed, as John grabbed onto the rope and helped steady the weight of the older man as he hung suspended over the gaping hole.

"Can't let go …" Tomas was at a point beyond rational thought, his fear blinding him to any thought of movement.

Tying the other rope swiftly around a heavy but rusted spike buried deep into the bedrock, Sherlock wasted no time, but tied-off the rope beneath his own arms and slid easily over the edge.

"_Jesus Christ, Sherlock!_" John closed his eyes in frustration. "We didn't need two of you going down the bloody thing!"

Allowing himself to slide carefully over the lip of the overhang and manoeuvring himself into a position beside Tomas, Sherlock saw that the boy's tenuous foothold was about to give way. There was no time to lose. "Can you catch?" he looked across at Purrun with a meaningful expression.

Nodding once, Purrun braced his feet on the curve of the shaft behind him and steadied himself.

"Tomas, I'm going to grab you and swing you across to the man on the other side. I want you to relax and not fight this, do you understand?"

"_Can't move_ …" the boy was groaning now.

"Yes, you can," Sherlock was almost at the teen's side now. "Give me your hands,' he said, in a more normal tone of voice. "Trust me, Tomas; this will all be over shortly."

"Don't drop me," the words were whispered but no less heartfelt for that.

"Trust me," Sherlock smiled as he leaned in close, grabbed the boy under the arms and pushed them both off with a powerful kick of his legs.

In less than three seconds, they had covered the width of the chasm beneath them, and Leander Purrun had the boy tightly clasped in his long, strong arms.

"_Up!_" he shouted, as Sherlock allowed himself to swing backwards to the far wall.

Clinging to the older man for his very life, Tomas was silent as John and Purrun's helper dragged them both up and back over the lip of the overhang. It took only a few more seconds and both the rescuer and the rescued were lying flat-out on the dusty grass, their chests heaving as reaction set in.

"_Sherlock?_" John shouted back over the edge. "Hang on; we'll have you out of there in a second."

"A moment, John," the younger Holmes sounded disembodied and distant. "I need a moment to check something while I'm here … I doubt there'll be another opportunity like this."

"Stop bloody messing around and get back up here," the doctor had had enough frights for one day.

"Whenever you're ready," finishing his inspection, Sherlock waited, using his feet to help push himself up the crumbling walls as the other men heaved him back up and over the edge to safety.

Standing, Leander Purrun helped the shaking teenager to his feet, only to have a pair of skinny arms thrown around his chest.

"_Thank you_," Tomas choked, his eyes wet with relief. "For saving me."

"You are fine now," the older man wrapped an arm around shaking shoulders, his words soothing. "Which is more than I can say about this old jacket of mine," he added ruefully, looking down at the ripped and scarred fabric where the rope had dragged at the seams. Not to worry," he added, smiling. "Let us get you home to your family. They will need to be told what has happened, but will be happy you are safe."

Returning a re-coiled length of rope to Purrun's man, John rolled his eyes. He didn't think Mycroft or Cate were going to be particularly happy about _any_ of it.

###

"Are you hurt? Are you injured?" standing in the front room of the Cornish house, Cate cast frantic eyes all over her nephew, her fingers touching his face, his hands, his arms; her expression as conversant as her words.

"Honest, Aunty Cat, I'm _fine_," Tomas stood still as she fussed over him, letting her check for herself that he really was in the same shape now as he was when he had left earlier. "I'm not even bruised."

"I'm very pleased to hear it," Cate's voice wobbled a little as she put her arms around the boy and hugged him close. The idea that her sister's youngest might have come to such a dreadful end while under her care was beyond anything she was willing to consider. Folding him into her embrace, she felt faintly sick.

Standing behind the pair, watching, Mycroft was still and silent.

He and Cate had only just returned from the hospital when the small procession made its way into the house, with Sherlock explaining the accident and the fact that, other than Purrun's jacket, there had been no further casualties.

Given that Leander Purrun was of a similar build and height as himself, Mycroft had immediately insisted upon replacing the damaged article with an entire suit and had handed over a complete outfit encased in its own immaculate travel-bag. He would hear no refusal, and the older man had eventually shrugged and smiled, not entirely unhappily.

Sherlock had provided a few additional details, made an exasperated face and returned to his temporary laboratory with John, still on the lookout for Purrun's other young spies.

And now he stood and watched as his wife tried to maintain her equilibrium. She was not being terribly successful, and Mycroft felt the calm he had striven so hard to claw back over the last few days begin to come loose around the edge.

Tomas felt very strange. Not only was he still limp with relief from not falling down a bloody big hole in the ground, but, other than his mother, nobody had even been so worried about him before and he wasn't sure what to do about it. Putting his own arms around his aunt, he realised that it was easier for him to hold her now, rather than the other way around. It made him feel different. Grown up.

"Really, Aunty Cat," he murmured again. "I'm fine."

"Shut up, you foolish boy," Cate still held him tight. "This isn't for you, it's for me."

Catching his uncle's gaze over her shoulder, Tomas rolled his eyes in the age-old camaraderie of males being embarrassed by their female relatives. He smiled.

He noticed that Mycroft did not smile back. In _fact_ …

As Cate's grip finally subsided and she left him to walk away, Tomas felt himself held by an entirely different kind of control; one not half so approachable. The usual cobalt brilliance of his uncle's eyes was now a storm-darkened blue.

"A word, Tomas," Mycroft sensed Cate pausing by the door. She heard the tone of his voice and knew what it meant. Hesitating for the merest moment, she left the room and closed the door behind her.

Tomas started feeling strange for a different reason altogether. He took a deep breath and met Mycroft's startling glower.

There was a loaded silence between them. It grew.

"It was an accident," Tomas broke first, feeling an incredible need to explain himself. "I didn't mean to do it, but the wood gave way and …"

"_After_ my brother had _already_ advised you the fence was unsafe, you kept on pushing it _until_ it gave way, you mean?" Mycroft's tone was cutting; his glare now a thing of ice and possessed of its own gravity as Tomas found himself unable to look away.

"I didn't think …"

"_No!_ You did not think at all! And without other people risking their necks to extract you from this utterly _irresponsible_ situation, you would have ceased thinking _entirely_ some time ago. It will not do, Tomas," Mycroft sighed and directed his angry stare through the window. He knew the words were harsh, but the notion that the boy might have died, chilled him to the bone.

Mycroft hadn't raised his voice, but the impact of his words was palpable and the boy felt their sting. It was clear this ordeal wasn't over: he swallowed in a dry throat and wondered what was still to come. "I'm not a child," he mumbled. "I know what I did was stupid."

"I doubt you comprehend the meaning of that claim," his uncle's words were softer but there was iron in them.

"I'll pay you back for the suit," Tomas announced, quietly.

"Will you?" Mycroft turned and looked at him speculatively. "Will you really?"

"Whatever you tell me it costs, I'll pay you back," the boy lifted his chin, nodding. He had never been so determined to do something before in his life. Anything to take away the feeling that he'd disappointed his uncle. For some reason it was becoming very important to him that he not do that.

"_Whatever_ the cost?" Mycroft's expression was reflective. "Are you quite sure?"

"I promise," Tomas stood up straighter and nodded again, more firmly this time. He would. Whatever he was told it would cost, he would find some way to pay it back.

"Then the cost is one A-Level," Mycroft folded his arms and looked the boy calmly in the eye. "The repayment I want for the suit is one, top-grade, A-level."

Shocked, Tomas felt his stomach sink. "But that means …"

"Yes, it does," Mycroft remained unmoved, watching the teen's face. "Changing your mind so soon?"

"It means I'll have to stay at school for another two years and then sit my exams and to do that means I'll have to stay at home and not go to London … _and_ …" he choked as the realisation hit home.

He had promised.

This was a test, then. A test to see if he was really as grown up as he imagined.

"I think the cost is unfair, but I promised I'll do it and I will," he squared his jaw. "One A-level is not so big a thing." London would still be there afterwards. He could still go.

"Considering you have not heard the details of the _qualification_ I want," Mycroft paused, "I think you are being somewhat premature."

"You want a specific _type_ of A-level?" Tomas felt his stomach sink a second time.

"_Whatever_ the cost?" Mycroft reminded him.

"Yeah," Tomas shook his head. "I did say that," he nodded morosely. "So what it is you want?"

Walking across to stare through the window once more, Mycroft linked his fingers behind his back. "If you tried hard, how many A-levels do you think you could realistically get?" he asked, focusing on the Bentley parked in front of the house.

Unsure where this was going, but realising he had better be on his toes before he agreed to anything else, Tomas shrugged grudgingly. "Maybe three or four. Probably."

"And those would _be_ ..?" turning from garden-view, Mycroft assessed the despondent youth.

Tomas sighed heavily. This was not going in any direction that sounded positive. "Maths, of course," he muttered. "And Statistics, probably Physics and Chemistry."

Mycroft shook his head musingly. "No, that's not quite enough."

"Four A-levels isn't enough for what?" Tomas did not like the sound of this at all.

Suddenly business-like, Mycroft met his nephew's gaze. "Not enough to meet the cost of my suit," he said.

"You only asked me for _one_ A-level," Tomas moaned, pressing both palms briefly to his eyes. "And now you're saying that _four_ aren't enough?"

"Statistics, Physics and Chemistry should be for your mother," Mycroft seemed totally unperturbed by the boy's apparent distress. "To reassure her she did not raise a complete idiot," he added. "You will also complete one in English," he said. "That will be for your aunt as an apology for risking your life in such a foolish manner," he paused. "And _then_," Mycroft smiled fractionally. "You shall achieve your highest score of all in the A-level you have agreed to win for _me_," he said. "In Mathematics. I will have your very best, Tomas, nothing less," he paused again. "That is my price."

"_Five A-levels?_" the boy whispered, incredulously. "You want me to pay you back by getting _five_ of them?"

"Oxford are unlikely to accept you with less than five," Mycroft scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Of course, there's always Cambridge, but I'd rather not speak of them, although it would please your aunt."

"You expect me to go to Oxford?" Tomas felt his head spin.

"I anticipate a First in Applied Mathematics; possibly a double-first if you take Statistics as well, but that's a later discussion."

"I could never afford university, Uncle Mycroft," Tomas shook his head. "No point even considering it."

"If you get me the fifth A-level I want, then I shall ensure you go to Oxford," Mycroft looked down into a pair of troubled brown eyes so uncannily like Cate's. "And that is _my_ promise."

"You _want_ me to go to Oxford?" Tomas was far beyond understanding now: none of this made sense. "Why?"

"Because if anyone should go, it is you, my boy," Mycroft rested a light hand on his nephew's shoulder. "But as with every gain in life, there is a cost and only you can say if that cost is worth it."

"You _want_ me to go to university?" Tomas blinked. "_Why?_" he asked again.

Weighing honesty against persuasion, Mycroft decided on candour. "Because I want you to work for me after you have finished your degree," he said. "You have a talent I can use."

_Oh._

"The numbers thing?"

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded slowly. "I need good people."

Sudden warmth stealing down his back and into his stomach made Tomas feel very strange. _Happy_ strange. If Uncle Mycroft thought he was good people, then he would do nothing to endanger that opinion. Taking a shallow breath, the teenager found himself smiling.

"I can pay your price," he said.

###

It was much later when Purrun was finally able to close the door to his own caravan and take a deep breath of relief. It had been an eventful day and he was exhausted; every one of his sixty-something years telling him to lie down and rest. But there was one more thing he wanted to do before he retired for the night.

Laying the long zippered bag along his bed, he opened the fastenings to reveal a most magnificent pale grey Gieves and Hawkes of cashmere and silk. It was a stupendous accolade to the art of bespoken male finery and Leander Purrun sat down on his bed with a thump.

There was still a debt to be paid, he realised, frowning.

As his attention wandered with his thoughts, his eyes caught sight of a scrap of curled paper laying on the small table beside his bed.

It carried several pencilled-numbers written in an unformed child's hand.

It was the number of the lorry which had returned several times to dump its illicit cargo down the old mine. Such information _might_ be of value.

Zipping the suit-bag closed, Purrun slipped the fragment of paper into his pocket and despite his tiredness, set out for the Cornish House with a swift step.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_Ruthless Empiricism – The Lack of a Moral Compass – A Settlement of Debts – Two Hours from Landfall – Anthea Unleashed – For the Love of Cake – John Wishes for His Gun._

#

#

Sherlock and John were in the temporary lab when Tomas wandered in, a distant expression on his face.

"You okay?" John stopped grinding up a rock sample in a mortar and watched the boy carefully as he strolled into the well-lit room. Although he was walking slowly, his appearance didn't seem to be one for immediate concern. There were no missing limbs; no sign of blood or tears, so perhaps Mycroft had been gentle, after all.

"I'm …" the teenager turned his head, thinking, a momentary frown between his eyes. "Fine, actually," he nodded, his demeanour brightening. _Yes_. Fine was what he was. The talk he'd just survived with his uncle had been a mixture of anxiety, shame and mind-blowing disbelief. The key word, however, was 'survived'.

Lifting his focus from a series of filtration papers spread out in front of him, Sherlock paused with a liquid-filled pipette in one hand and a pair of long tweezers in the other.

"It seems my assumption of the protection-value of youth was correct," he blinked slowly. "My brother is rarely noted for his forbearance," he added, returning to his quantitative testing. "He must like you for some reason."

"He wants me to go to Oxford and then come and work for him," the boy looked uncertain. "Is that good?"

"There are worse things, I suppose," Sherlock concentrated on his titration. "Although a specific example escapes me at present."

"If Mycroft Holmes has asked you to go and work for him, then you've clearly got something he wants," John scraped the crushed minerals carefully into a small glass dish. "The numbers thing?"

Shrugging awkwardly, Tomas nodded. "The numbers thing."

"Then let us hope you remember my brother appreciates idiots even less than I," the younger Holmes selected a beaker and added a tiny amount of the damp powder handed to him by John.

Having the grace to look distinctly embarrassed, Tomas walked up between the tall man and the doctor and watched as experienced fingers made short work of the several test processes.

"I'm sorry for being stupid," he said quietly.

Without turning his head, Sherlock raised a single eyebrow but remained silent and focused on his work.

Tomas saw. "_Okay_," he said. "I'm sorry for being _very_ stupid. I was showing off and not thinking straight and I'm sorry for getting the both of you into a horrible situation, but especially you, Sherlock," Tomas looked into a pair of pale grey-blue eyes. "Thank you for saving my life."

"Yes, well …" Sherlock paused thoughtfully before offering him the tweezers. "How do you feel about sample preparation?" he asked. "I have approximately seventy different tests to do and they all need an homogenous sample dissolution, precipitation and then at least thirty of them need to be filtered through these," he said, pointing to a box of circular filtration papers. "Nothing says _sorry_ like six hours of lab-assistance."

Grinning like a maniac, Tomas took the slender steel implements and started the wearisome process of separating out individual papers and setting up glass flasks to hold them. It was going to be a good night.

Looking over the boy's head as he bent to his task, Sherlock raised both eyebrows in John's direction. The doctor smiled, shook his head at the rational irrationalities of the Holmes brothers and continued pulverising another sample of tin-ore in the heavy mortar.

"So," the blonde man muttered, compressing a particularly recalcitrant fragment of rock. "You got any ideas about this stuff, yet?"

Holding up a long measuring beaker up to the light, partially filled with a dark-blue liquid, Sherlock took care as he added distilled water, filling it exactly to the 200 millilitre level. Swirling the distilled and dilute solution, the younger Holmes watched and waited to see if any colour-change resulted. It didn't.

"I always have ideas, John," he murmured. "However, there is a ruthlessness to empiricism that demands substantive rather than hypothesised proof, and it is that which eludes me for the moment."

"So, ideas, but no real leads, then?" John frowned. "Should we be worried?"

"The problem is in identifying those chemical signatures which have been admixed within the sample," Sherlock frowned. "If I knew more precisely what form of toxin we were seeking, I could separate out those indicators and work on nullifying measures," he shook his head in some frustration. "There're too many possibilities for a swift conclusion."

"In other word, you really have no idea what to look for?" John sounded surprised. It was rare for his flatmate to admit difficulty in anything.

"John," Sherlock paused what he was doing and looked the shorter man in the eye. "Smell this," he said, placing the flask of bluish liquid directly beneath the doctor's nose.

Unwittingly taking a deep whiff of the stuff before he realised what was happening, John recoiled, yanking his head back as fast as he could; the violent reek offensive even to a nose with his olfactory experience.

"_Jesus effing hell_, _Sherlock_," he cried, turning his head away and looking revolted. "What is _in_ that stuff?"

"Surely you can smell the sulphates?" Sherlock put the flask to one side seemingly unaffected by the rank stench. "What else can you smell in there?"

"Don't think I'll be up to smelling _anything_ for a while after that," the blonde man sticking his head out the back door, inhaling great drafts of early evening air. It didn't do a lot of good: the dreadful whiff refused to leave his nostrils. "_God_," he coughed. "That's appalling."

"Can I?" Tomas asked tentatively. "My mum always gets me to taste her curries in case she's made it too hot and I can usually tell just by sniffing the pan."

Looking at him in silence, Sherlock pushed the beaker back across the bench top towards the boy. "Be my guest."

Stepping closer, and without touching the flask with his hands. The teen leaned forward and took a small, tentative sniff. His nose wrinkled immediately, but he persisted, leaning closer and taking another, slightly deeper inhalation.

"It's pretty grim," he acknowledged, making a pained face. "And I can definitely smell the rotten eggs … but I can smell something else as well," he offered. "Hang on …" he added, bracing himself and leaning back in for a third and final breath. He was choking as he stepped back, waving the air away from his face as if that might help.

"_Bleach_," he said. "I can small bleach."

"Indeed," Sherlock nodded meaningfully. "But it's not bleach that affronts your nose, but _chlorine_. There's more than a trace of ammonia, too, lending it that subtle _je ne c'est quoi_."

"So what contains sulphates, chlorine and ammonia?" John wrinkled his forehead.

"And is lipophilic," Sherlock added. "The speed with which it soaked into human flesh means it has to be attracted to oil rather than water."

"Sulphates, chlorine, ammonia, likes body-fat and is also a highly effective neurotoxin …" John pondered, his chem-lab days long behind him. But there was a faint little flag waving distantly at the back of his mind.

"And don't forget the way it's also affected Mycroft's emotional state and neurological function, which therefore also speaks of some form of endocrine disruption," the younger Holmes folded his arms. "Even if I don't have all the facts yet, I'm reasonably certain of this thing's provenance."

"Then what is it that's making Uncle Mycroft sick?" Tomas was worried but oddly fascinated as well.

Lifting both eyebrows, Sherlock breathed softly and looked thoughtful. "A biocide," he said, finally. "I believe my brother has been poisoned by some pernicious mutation of DDT."

###

Waiting until Tomas had left the front room, Cate slipped back in before Mycroft had a chance to leave. She had known what was in her husband's mind the second she'd heard that _particular_ tone in his voice. It wasn't one he used often, and it had been directed at her only on the rarest of occasions, but still; she had known her nephew was about to experience the fabled Holmesian wrath first hand.

"Is he alright?" she asked, the moment she'd closed the door behind her. Mycroft was standing, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out through the window facing the front of the house. "Did you upset him terribly?"

Mycroft turned from the view, a light smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Cate felt something inside her relax.

"He's going to be perfectly fine in a couple of years," he smiled at the private joke. "Although you might never forgive me after what I've done."

That didn't sound good.

"And what have you done?" she asked, sliding both arms around his waist and resting her face against the linen of his t-shirt and breathing in the scent of warm husband.

"Convinced him to go home and stay at school for the next two years."

Cate grinned up at him, delighted. "Why on earth would you imagine forgiveness would be needed for that?" she laughed softly.

"Oh, not for that, specifically," Mycroft slipped his arms around her, still smiling.

"Then for what?" Cate was both puzzled and curious.

"Our nephew is also going to attain five A-levels in order that he might be accepted at a reputable university," Mycroft's smile was still there and though Cate felt his arms close a little tighter around her shoulders, she thought nothing of it.

"_Really_?" her grin widened. "Did he say which university he wanted to attend?" she thought for a moment. "Cambridge, by any chance?"

"Not Cambridge," Mycroft clasped her just a little closer as he shook his head, waiting for the inevitable moment of comprehension.

It was only a few seconds. He felt her entire body grow still with certainty.

"You're going to arrange for Tomas to go to Oxford, aren't you?" Cate lifted her head slowly until their eyes met.

"Absolutely," Mycroft grinned back down at the rising expression on his wife's face.

"That was sneaky, manipulative and exhibits a distinct lack of any moral compass," attempting to push herself away from him, Cate realised now the reason for his tight embrace. She was pinned.

"Don't mention it," he laughed down at her, keeping her tight against him as she attempted to wriggle free.

"Physical force? Really?" she scowled as his quiet laughter shook them both.

"I said not to mention it," Mycroft breathed her in and felt his laughter morph into something less light-hearted. "_Catie_."

The tone of his voice had dropped nearly a full octave as he stared down into her eyes; dark eyes already wide open from hearing her name spoken in … like _that_. Mycroft only used _that_ tone when his thoughts were moving in a very specific direction since it made her knees wobble. And he knew it.

"We have a house-full of guests," she demurred, her protest somewhat undermined by a heartbeat escalating so fast he could feel it hammer through her back.

"It's our house," he whispered, reaching a long arm over and turning the key in the door.

"You might be needed, Sherlock might want to talk to you …" Cate felt herself grow lightheaded as his lips brushed the line of her jaw. She closed her eyes at the exquisite sensation of warm skin on skin.

"Sherlock can wait," he said, his hand flat between her shoulder blades, pressing her closer to him, keeping her body aligned with his molten core. His head was spinning with the nearness and sheer physicality of her. He wanted to touch and hold and kiss and taste …

"This isn't even our bedroom," her words were heavy with the sensual pleasure of his caresses.

"We don't need a bedroom," he murmured finding the sensitive place under her ear.

"This is madness, we're not teenagers," Cate gasped as his fingers raked through her hair, exposing her throat to his mouth.

"You want me," Mycroft's voice was entirely beguiling and persuasive as he drifted over her silk-fine skin, pulling her head gently back to expose more of it for his enjoyment.

"I think that would be a terribly bad idea," she breathed as he caught at her collarbone with his teeth, his hands and arms holding her closer so that she could feel his own wild heartbeat; feel his desire for her. His fingers stroked her skin beneath her t-shirt, finding the buttons of her shorts.

"You want me the way I want you … _now_," he whispered, drawing her to a thickly upholstered chintz sofa, his fingers stroking her face, her throat, as she tried to breathe normally, to find a moment of sanity and of pause.

But sanity was not in his plan. Smiling at her soft groan as he pulled her into his lap against his chest, his kisses became more demanding, more wanting. With a shuddering sigh, Cate started to push the shirt from his shoulders and Mycroft knew that, _this time_, they would both get exactly what he desired.

###

The knocking at the front door had remained unanswered for such an extent of time that Sherlock felt himself forced to look for the reason why. Surely one of the others would have heard the noise by now and seen fit to investigate? The noise continued. _Apparently not_. Where were Mycroft and Cate and Mrs Compton?

With an exaggerated sigh, and a sharp grimace at John, he threw down the sample slide he had been preparing and stalked through the house to the front door. Yanking it open, prepared to be as unpleasant as needed to deter whoever it was from conversation, he snapped his mouth shut when he recognised the leader of the nearby camp, Leander Purrun.

"Mr Purrun," he smiled fleetingly. "Everyone seems to be elsewhere at the moment. How may I assist you?" the younger Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"_So_ sorry, Mr Sherlock," Nora scurried along the passageway behind him. "I was upstairs getting the children ready for bed and couldn't leave them to get the door, but I'm here now."

"Not to worry, Nanny Nora," Sherlock nodded. "Mr Purrun and I have met. He waggled his fingers in the approximate direction of the kitchen. "You run off and do whatever it is you need to do, and I'll see to our visitor."

"I'll just go and put the kettle on then," she smiled at Purrun who nodded back. There was the sound of a nearby door rattling open and Cate stepped into the hall from the front room. Her hair was distinctly dishevelled and her t-shirt was inside-out. There was a light flush on her face and a vague air of disorientation about her which told the younger Holmes entirely more than he wished to know of his sister-in-law's recent activities. He sighed. For a person lately approaching death, his brother was sexually active to the point of incredulity. The impairment of his endocrine system and very probably his hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis had to be more profound than could be imagined. For someone with such fine emotional and intellectual command, Mycroft must be suffering dreadfully from the inevitably diminished authority over his baser impulses. For a moment, Sherlock pitied his sibling.

"Hello, Mr Purrun," Cate smiled abstractedly at the older man. "Would you like some tea? I'm sure some of us would like one about now."

Walking into the large square kitchen, Cate ushered the visitor to sit at the main table upon which Nora began to set out cakes and pastries and plates.

As he passed her side, Sherlock tugged at Cate's shirt-hem until she looked down at his fingers. Saying nothing, he exited towards the lab, a faint smile curling his lips as he heard her annoyed hiss of realisation.

Mycroft walked in, carefully adjusting one of the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt-as-a-jacket. There was a look of general affability on his face.

"Leander," he smiled, offering his hand. "Is everything well with your grandson?"

"The doctor has told us he will be fine by tomorrow and maybe even ready to come home by tomorrow night if he continues to improve," the old man nodded, pleased. "And again, I must give you the thanks of us all," he paused. "The child is a favourite," he shrugged and smiled.

"We're just happy your boy is getting better," Cate handed the old man a cup of tea while Nora set about slicing up a couple of cakes and setting pieces and forks onto plates.

"But that's not why you are here now, is it?" Mycroft accepted a cup of the steaming liquid and scrutinised Nora's cakes. He really shouldn't.

"You are right," Leander sampled a piece of Mrs Compton's coffee and cream gateaux and was transported. "_Magnificent_," he grinned.

Nora almost blushed.

"If not the child, then ..?" Mycroft sipped his tea.

Leaning his hands on the grained top of the old wooden table, Purrun's face grew sombre. "In the last few months a lorry has driven down the track near our camp every few weeks when there is no moon," he began. "At first, none of us were sure what it was doing and why it kept returning always at night, and so I had my Watchers keep their eyes open for it and twice now, they have seen it arrive and observed what it has done."

"And what did it do?" Cate sat down at the table, interested.

"It threw many large steel barrels down the biggest of the mineshafts," he said. "The one your young man fell down earlier today."

"Did it, by God?" Mycroft sat back in his seat, his face turned blank and inward as he drew the obvious conclusion. "Did your watchers notice any visible marking on the drums, any names or words or numbers?" he asked. "It could be helpful."

Shaking his head, Purrun linked his fingers on the table. "No," he admitted. "My grandsons were able to give no details of the actual cargo, but the youngest, the one you helped, was able to bring me this," he added, a crafty smile lifting his mouth as he laid a small scrap of paper on the table and pushed it across.

Touching the paper with a fingertip, Mycroft noted the childish writing and the faintness of the pencil marks: faint, but not unreadable. There were a series of letters and numbers: a vehicle registration number.

"This will be very useful," Mycroft was already reaching for his Blackberry. Within moments, he had relayed the information to Anthea together with instructions as to what she was to do with the data and with whom she should share it.

"This information is of value to you?" Purrun looked hopeful. "I am in your debt for the gifts you have given me, and I would feel happier if I had been able to repay you, if only in a little way."

"Any debt between us is entirely on my side," Mycroft leaned forward. "This information may provide me with vital information and may save more than one life, so do not concern yourself with any notion of repayment. In fact it is _I_," Mycroft paused, smiling, "who am now in debt to _you_."

"Then let us settle this between us as men," Purrun slapped the table with a palm and grinned. "Let me take away one of this lady's incredible cakes for the children and we might both consider the matter finished," he smiled. "Does that meet with your satisfaction?"

Raising his eyes to Nora, Mycroft asked a silent question.

With a big smile on her face, Mrs Compton walked into the old stone-floored pantry, returning in moments with a large, domed Tupperware container.

"Will this do the job, do you think, Mr Mycroft?" the housekeeper lifted the plastic lid to reveal an astonishing multi-layered strawberry-and-cream affair with, Mycroft noted, a lavish bestrewment of dark chocolate shavings.

Turning to Purrun with an inquiring expression, the older man almost laughed.

"There is enough here for an entire tribe of children," he looked absurdly pleased. "Though I do not expect there to be anything left by tomorrow when the youngest returns from hospital."

"I'll have another made by then," Nora replaced the protective dome. "Send one of your lads over tomorrow morning after ten or so and they can carry it back," she placed the precious cargo on the table. "Can't have the little laddie go without his share of cake."

Standing, Leander walked to the housekeeper and lifted her hand in his. "A most gracious gesture," he smiled, bringing Nora's fingers to his lips. "We must be careful or there will be yet another debt to repay," he added, turning to make his way out of the kitchen. He was careful not to forget the cake.

A pink blush tinged the older woman's face. "Yes, well," she murmured, about to show him out. "That's enough of that now."

Looking over the rim of her cup, Cate met Mycroft's impossibly innocent blue gaze and struggled not to grin like a loon.

"I'll go up and tuck the children in for the night," she said, coughing as the tea went down the wrong way. "Lovely to see you again, Mr Purrun. I'm sure we'll meet again very soon," she added, shooting a sideways glance at Nora as she left the kitchen.

Mycroft's mobile rang. "_Yes_, Anthea?"

What followed was a strange, one-sided conversation of single-syllabled words and short, staccato instructions. "Good," the elder Holmes finished. "Inform me when the information is confirmed. It is important." Standing, he pocketed his phone and went in search of his brother.

Mycroft knew if the information he'd just received was true and he would have been very surprised if it wasn't, then his brother might find it useful in order to help determine the nature of the poison that was damaging his mind.

###

The cove just north of Saint Just was precisely thirty-two nautical miles from the concealed harbour in St Mary's. With _The Clear Sky's_ powerful engines and a calm sea, Bisset knew he could make the crossing in under an hour, however he did not want to attract any attention whatsoever and so he would keep his impressive engines half-asleep unless they were needed just as they had been the previous night. The crossing would take two hours.

They had laid up all through the daylight hours, resting mostly, but while their mysterious passenger had continued to sleep, he and Joubert had also spent quite some time checking the boat to see if anything of last night's encounter with the tanker had left any lasting damage. Thankfully not, although the bilges needed pumping out after the massive amounts of water that had swamped the entire vessel as the enormous ship had borne down on them. The boat would need a major clean-up when they returned to France, but there was nothing in the way of damage that might significantly alter their plans. They would land on the British mainland tonight, a little after ten, when the darkness was full and the moon barely risen.

###

"Yes, but drums of _what_?" Sherlock folded his arms and looked doubtfully at his brother. "I already have a fairly clear idea of what we might be dealing with, but if I am to identify a specific cause and therefore an equally specific remedy, then I need a _little_ more detail, Mycroft."

"Which you shall have as soon as Anthea is able to locate those responsible," the elder Holmes confirmed. "I have set her on the spoor of the miscreants, and would expect some sort of progress before the night is out."

"Will you be able to find a cure?" Tomas looked hopefully at the younger of the brothers.

Assessing the nature of the question and the underlying concern, Sherlock was slow in answering. "Perhaps," he offered, turning to meet Mycroft's gaze with an open expression. "If there is one."

"Don't alarm the boy, Sherlock," Mycroft was brisk and all business. "Please continue with your evaluation of the situation and as soon as Althea's has information of value, I shall make it known to you," he turned and made to walk away.

"And in the meantime you will undoubtedly be … _resting_?" the mildly provoking tone in Sherlock's voice had Mycroft pause his stride before he continued his exit without making a comment. But it was only a _little_ pause.

###

Having had such a long nap during the afternoon, neither of the twins was particularly sleepy and were both sitting in their pyjamas, playing contentedly with toy cars in a corner of the room they shared temporarily with Nora. Julius was fast becoming an expert in handling a grey Aston Martin around the legs of chairs, while Blythe preferred the shiny blackness of the Jaguar. It was just like Daddy's and she kept it running smoothly along the edge of the rug. She had already decided she wanted one just like it.

Cate sat on the floor and stroked her daughter's hair. Baby-soft and very dark, there were curls forming along the bottom where it was still drying after their bath. "Did you have a nice day today on the beach making sand castles?" she asked softly, combing her fingers gently through the springing waves.

"Can we go back tomorrow?" Blythe turned with a hopeful smile. "I liked the big puddle on the beach," she nodded in confirmation. "I liked making sands cassels with daddy."

"And I liked making sand castles too!" Jules shot over as he raced the Aston Martin across the hem of the rug and up to his mother's leg where he performed a screeching handbrake turn before parking it in the crook of her knee.

"We can all go back to the beach tomorrow and make some more sand castles and play in the pool if you would like to do that," Cate noted the sunscreen had done its job and there were no pink spots in sight. "Are you feeling hot anywhere?" she asked, lifting her son's chin up so that she might inspect his face more closely. But there was no sunburn. Just a golden-glowing happy little face with bright hazel eyes.

Standing, Jules reached up and put his arms around her neck, pressing his soft lips gently against her cheek.

Cate felt her breathing tighten with unspeakable emotion. She smiled. "What was that for?" she asked, reaching an arm around her boy and hugging him back.

"For jelly and ice cream," he said. "And Nanny Nora's cake."

"I see," Cate could not avoid smiling. "You love me for cake."

"Yes," the child nodded very seriously. "For good cake."

At a loss for words, Cate wrapped him entirely in her arms and breathed in the scent of clean child.

"Time for bed, I think," she said. "Who wants to go at the top and who wants to go at the bottom tonight?" The children were sharing one of the twin beds in the room and saw the whole thing as a great adventure. They never got to do this at home.

Mycroft stepped into the room. He had been listening to the conversation with a smile curving his mouth. The deep affection he felt for his children had grown with them and now they were becoming increasingly independent, both physically and emotionally, he found himself endlessly fascinated by their developing individuality. That _his_ genes and guardianship were affecting the adults these two might eventually become was indeed a humbling realisation. He was incredibly glad that they had a mother such as Cate: never treating them as children in the intellectual sense, her every interaction encouraged a blossoming of personality. He felt a warm surge in his chest.

"Who wants a story about internet pirates?" he asked, bending to pick Blythe up from the rug. She squirmed like a puppy in his arms until she was able to put her hands on his shoulders and stare directly into his eyes. Eyes that were the mirror-image of her own.

"Is it a story about bad people?" for one so young, Mycroft noted her smile was happily predacious.

"Yes," he acknowledged. "But there are good people in the story too."

"I like stories with bad people," Blythe was emphatic. "Bad people do more clever things."

Meeting Cate's eyes as he lowered his daughter into her cocoon of soft sheets and fluffy blankets, he saw she was fighting not to laugh.

"But bad people are caught and put in prison where they can't be with their mummy and daddy, and so it's not really good to be a bad person," Mycroft offered, barely managing to keep the amusement from his own words.

"If I was being bad, nobody would catch me," she yawned extravagantly, cuddling down into the bedding with her teddy.

"Best of luck with _that_ one," Cate sniggered as she finished tucking the children in and left him to it.

###

The sun was well-down by the time Sherlock completed his baseline tests. It was irritating that he was still unable to differentiate clearly between the mineral constituents and those of the debasing pollutant.

"Then if this toxin is, as I assumed," he frowned, thinking. "A mutational form of biocide organically entangled with the chemical signature of the tin, I need an unpolluted sample of the ore in order to construct a functional comparative analysis. Once I have the entire compositional spectrum of the unadulterated material, I can begin to tease out those elements which are foreign," he stood, abruptly. "I need a pure sample."

"To the Batcave?" John grinned.

"Indeed," the younger Holmes reached for a couple of the HAZMAT kits. "Still got that lighter of yours?" he asked Tomas. "We're going hunting."

"Then let's go," John was already heading down the passage towards the bookroom, a determined look on his face.

In seconds, the bookcase had been moved to its usual resting-place at one side of the gaping entrance, a breath of fresh air flooding the room with its salty fragrance. Torches at the ready, three beams of light stabbed into the pitch blackness as they proceeded down into the depths of the earth, their progress reflected a million times from facets of sharp quartz implanted in the dark granite.

More certain of their footing now, they moved swiftly down the first flight of steps into the expanded waiting area where Tomas again lit the coagulation of old candles. They seemed to light faster and burn fractionally brighter this time.

"The wicks are starting to re-saturate with wax," Sherlock nodded. "The more they burn now, the better their light will become."

He turned to the lower exit, searching with his torch for the protruding machete, preferring not to crash into it in the dark. "We know the seam of tin is contaminated down to at least this level," he said, following the lighter undulation of rock with the finger of his torch. "The question now is how far down do we have to go to find an uncontaminated site?"

"Does this go all the way down to the beach?" Tomas was also following the line of paler deposit with the light of his torch. "What happens in we can't find a clean sample?"

"Let us hope that is not the case," Sherlock moved towards the lower steps. "Everyone keep your eyes sharp for any differences in colour or texture in the rock," he instructed. "The sooner we get the sample, the sooner we can identify the agents which are the cause of the problem."

Heading slowly down the stone steps, the streams of light synchronised as far as possible on following the snaking line of ore as it kinked and curved along the wall beside them, sometimes far too high to reach, sometimes vanishing for yards at a time, only to reappear further down the stairs.

At various intervals, Sherlock stopped and sniffed the rock itself, clearly trying to find the point in the seam where the adulteration ceased. But what if the entire seam had been corrupted? Preferring to focus only on what _was_, rather than what _might be_, Sherlock said nothing and searched harder. It looked as if the rock was becoming both drier and more irregular. It was certainly getting more difficult to see.

They reached the fake landslide and the old iron gate, but there was still occasional evidence of the greasy residue fixed within the seam. They needed to follow it lower still, and the three passed quickly through the gate, tracking the now increasingly-illusive thread of lighter rock along the wall.

By the number of steps they had traversed since the gate, they knew they were rapidly approaching the exit into the cave. They could hear a faint sound of waves on sand, and though it was now dark, there was a light glow from the not entirely-dark sky. They still had not found a place where the line of tin had proved to be pure and uncontaminated.

"What if we can't find a clean sample, Sherlock?" John spoke softly, but his concern was clear.

"There is still hope," Sherlock strode down the last few steps and suddenly stopped, his eye caught by a dull gleam of silver-grey. "Stop!" he commanded, turning his head back and forwards trying to rediscover the glimpsed smudge. "Go back," he instructed. "It was around here," he added, his eyes raking the rock wall.

"_Here_," John motioned across the wall with his beam of light which chose, at that moment, to flicker and die. "Ah, _bloody hell_," he muttered, smacking the back of the torch with the heel of his hand. It remained stubbornly dead.

"I got it," Tomas shone his light in the same spot, revealing a faint patch, no more than a few feet square, where the powder-grey tin flowed visibly across the rock at a reachable height. Slipping a hand into a protective glove, Sherlock brushed his palm lightly across the surface of the seam, looking down at the dusty particles that clung glitteringly to the heavy-duty plastic. He sniffed his hand and could make out nothing more than dust with a trace of salt.

"This looks like a possibility," he murmured, handing his torch to John. "Keep it there for me, would you?" he asked, digging the sample packets from his pocket.

Tomas stepped back, looking around the cave entrance itself in case there might be another outcropping of the precious ore. It was only when he came level with the actual opening to the cave onto the beach that his attention was drawn to movement on the shore. Some age-old sense of preservation stopped him form shining the beam of his torch out into the night air.

There was a very large dark shadow on the beach itself, obviously a boat that had only just arrived, judging by the activity on the low-slung deck.

Stepping across to the very edge of the rock overhang which hid the cave from full view of the shore, Tomas watched and listened. There were voices, but they weren't speaking in English. He listened harder. _Ah_.

"John! Sherlock!" he hissed, still watching. "_Quick_! Over here!"

Having satisfactorily completed his sample-collection, Sherlock looked over at the oddly-positioned teen. From the way he was standing, anyone would imagine he was trying to hide from …

"What is it?" John spoke in his normal voice at which both Tomas and Sherlock shushed him.

"There's something odd going on, on the beach," Tomas stabbed his finger repeatedly in the relevant direction.

Looking out into the darkness, Sherlock made out the shapes of three men climbing down a short rope ladder thrown over the bows of the craft. Once they had their feet on dry land, there was some laughter as well as the handing-over of a heavy-looking package; payment of some kind, he assumed, as this was clearly a transaction of sorts. He wondered what was in the package. Money or drugs?

Still talking, now that the deal was done, the three men lit up cigarettes, smoking them companionably in the deepening dark.

"We have a problem," Sherlock whispered.

"With what?" John whispered back.

"The man highest up the beach," Sherlock spoke softly. "I recognise him, and _that's_ the problem."

"Why?" Tomas hissed. "Who is he?"

"His name is Totoni Elbaneh," Sherlock sighed breathily. "He's been on the FBI's most wanted list for the last five years, and we can't let him get away."

Closing his eyes John wondered, not for the first time, how he never seemed to have his gun when he most needed it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_Maintaining Standards – A Lesson in Odds – Her Majesty's Bad-Asses – A Close Relation – That Way Madness Lies – Go! – A Certain Risk of Death – Not a Single Word – Complete Surrender._

#

#

After a story about cyber-pirates, in which heroes of the British Secret Service successfully foiled a fiendish attempt to steal the Queen's computer, Mycroft sat and watched his sleeping children for a few rare, undisturbed moments. By their ability to grasp not only most of the vocabulary, but also the abstract concepts of his tales, he realised they were significantly in advance of social expectations. Where most children their age were still in the process of identifying simple nouns, these two were already experimenting with the eight parts of speech. The books of few words and large pictures of puppies and fire-engines had long been consigned to the lowest shelf of their growing collection and now both he and Cate were constantly hunting for texts with smaller print and fewer pictures. It seemed almost every day one or the other would demonstrate some previously unknown knowledge or skill and their development appeared to be rushing forward at an indecent speed. He wondered, idly, which of the two would be the first to read. Probably Blythe and probably soon. He smiled and lifted his eyebrows as he looked down at her untroubled sleeping face, a dark curl brushing her eyelids.

Mycroft understood his wife's desire to keep them as children for as long as might be possible, but even and perhaps _especially_ she could not fail to recognise how this situation was likely to evolve.

In the quiet of his thoughts, Mycroft acknowledged the increasing similarities between the twins' rapid development and the course of his brother's own childhood. As a small boy, Sherlock had been voracious for new understanding, but he had been alone and had nothing to temper or test his perception. Perhaps because there were two of them, neither Julius nor Blythe would be destined for solitary anxieties or hopes and their interaction with the world might be a more harmonious experience than had been Sherlock's lot. By the time his brother was ten, he had already become horribly aware of the social limitations into which he was expected to enter as an adult. Mycroft hoped his children would have an easier maturation than that; that he and Cate might, between them, create a scaffolding which would enable their children to develop without fear and to embrace adulthood without regret.

It was odd, he found himself reflecting, that he had never given himself to much consideration of such thoughts as these so clearly before – there always seemed insufficient time, always some unseemly need to rush. But now, as Mycroft felt his thoughts becoming less streamlined and more … organic, it was as if the recent disablement of his celebrated reasoning had set free an entirely different level of comprehension. _Was it new_, he wondered, or had it always been there, hidden and silenced beneath the heavy adamantine layers of more critical perception?

"Mycroft!" Cate stuck her head around the door, an urgent expression on her face. "The box on your desk is flashing and bleeping. Is it dangerous?"

"Not for anyone in the house, my love," he stood quickly, switching off the bedroom light as he left. "How long ago did it start?" he asked, walking swiftly down the stairs and into the front room to the left of the hallway which they had decided to use as a more formal office as there was a large desk in one corner. On their arrival at the Cornish house several days before, Mycroft had set a small black box, about the size of a DVD case, in the centre of the desk. Along the top edge of the slim container were a row of five tiny, unlit windows.

As he approached the device, Mycroft noticed that in addition to a soft regular _beep_, three of the five windows were already glowing. A dark red at the far left, through a dull orange to a bright yellow in the centre. The remaining two lights would be a vivid blue and the last, the most critical of them all, a brilliant and pulsating white.

"Less than a minute ago," Cate watched the glowing lights, the third one, the yellow one, blinked rapidly. "What is it and what are all these colours?"

"A moment, my love," he said, reaching for his Blackberry, Mycroft made almost instant contact with Alex Beaumont. Clearly his call had been expected. "It's happening," he said. "The third light is flashing, which means they're already inside the second perimeter. Can you track them?"

"Pinpointing them as we speak, Mycroft," the American's voice was steady but subdued as he spoke with unknown others in the room beside him. "Looks like we have the RAF on hand if needed," he added. "But your marines are demanding first blood, and since I've had an opportunity to actually watch some of them in action, I'm going to chicken out and allow you to make the call, Boss."

A smile flickered across his face as Mycroft sat at the desk and activated his laptop. "I need real-time satellite," he instructed. "Who is the closest to immediate response?" he asked, "this isn't about counting _coup_, but managing a problem. Who can respond expeditiously?"

"That would be your Royal Marines," Beaumont's cultivated tones were quietly positive. "There's a standby contingent of Four-Two Commando on board _HMS_ _Westminster_, which just _happens_ to be on a degaussing operation off the Cornish coast."

"How entirely convenient," Mycroft said dryly. "The _Westminster_?"

There was amusement in the American's voice. "I know you have your standards."

"Send the Commandos," Mycroft focused on the real-time satellite transmission flickering across his laptop screen. It was almost totally dark, but from over his shoulder, Cate could clearly see the shape of what seemed to be a jagged coastline on the screen's diagonal, with the sea filling well over half of the screen and land taking up the remaining space.

There was something moving; she leaned in closer, resting her hands on Mycroft's shoulders as she peered at the computer-screen.

A ghostly greenish-white light indicated movement of some kind, There was something closing in from out at sea, vaguely boat-shaped, although the outline was deformed with odd curves and lumps. It looked like it was heading in to shore.

With a brush of the screen, Mycroft was able to track the movement of the craft, as a second image came into view: on land and also outlined in the same greenish-white glow, this was a squarer, much blockier image, obviously a building of some kind. The footprint of the building was substantial.

"Is that us?" Cate asked, riveted.

"It is," Mycroft pulled her to his left side, sliding an arm around her hips as she leaned against him. "We have the best seats in the house," he smiled up at her standing there, her face a study in concentration. "Quite literally."

"Who is in that boat and what is all this fuss about?" Cate was still following the slow movement of the vessel with an unblinking stare. "And why are you tracking it with this," she waved her fingers at the black box "…thing?"

Turning in his seat, Mycroft took both her hands in his own. "Smugglers," he said.

"Really?" Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Smugglers? In this day and age?"

"Perhaps I should have more correctly said _people_ smugglers," Mycroft squeezed her fingers gently. "There's an increasing number of illegal entries into Britain from a variety of countries, many from Algeria and what used to be French North Africa," he paused, "as well as from France itself, of course," he added. "In recent months there has been a sharp rise in landings along the Cornish coast. Most of the unfortunates are picked up after they've been dumped on some remote beach, but there are still a number who manage to evade detection. When I knew we were coming here for a month, I arranged with Alex Beaumont to run a trial of some extremely advanced and decidedly clandestine technology that enables a barrage of highly-focused marine-traffic location techniques to be deployed at shore-level, something we've not been able to do before," he looked back at the satellite transmission which showed the boat much closer to the demarcation line between sea and shore.

"That's why I was able to use my laptop on the beach?" Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Your secret technology uses Wi-Fi?" she thought a bit more. "But how did you know to even have it installed here?"

Rubbing his nose, Mycroft looked contemplative. "Several weeks ago, an MI6 operative disguised as an illegal enroute from Syria, came through a smuggler's charming care," he said. "It was his second encounter with this particular smuggler and his people, but on this occasion, the operative was prepared, carrying the latest thing in micro-digital cameras. He was able, even on a moonless night, to take a series of images which led us to believe the smuggler's landfall was somewhere in this particular area," he said. "It was pure coincidence that this house was within the hypothesised radius, but it seemed too fortuitous not to trial the new location technology while we were here," Mycroft paused, tilting his head slightly to one side and watching her eyes.

"We've known for some time that a particularly insidious individual by the name of Bisset has been making free with the Cornish coastline, and I wondered if, by trialling this device here and now, we might be able to generate additional data on nocturnal traffic," he paused again, watching the boat edge nearer. "It appears we may have landed more than we bargained for."

Still fascinated by the green-white blob approaching ever closer to the house, Cate realised it wasn't coming into land at the beach directly in front of them, but at a spot somewhat over to the right. There was only one cove that close and in that particular location.

"They're going to land at the secret beach," she murmured.

"It certainly looks that way," Mycroft's eyes were locked onto the screen, knowing that whatever he saw, Beaumont was also able to see and so too, he hoped, were the marines aboard _HMS Westminster_. "I believe it has been used quite frequently; I observed signs of recent use when we were there."

"But that's where Sherlock and Tomas and John have just gone," Cate realised as a cold sensation slid down her spine. "While you were upstairs with the children, Sherlock was demanding a sample of something and all three of them have gone back down the tunnel to find it," Cate's eyes grew wide at the idea of them walking into danger.

Already reaching for his mobile phone, Mycroft stood, his free hand at his wife's back. Speed-dialling his brother's number, Mycroft waited for several rings before making a face and ending the call. "There's no response," he said. "No signal in the tunnel."

"Then I'll warn them," Cate made as if to turn to the door when she found her lower arm held firmly.

"No … you won't," Mycroft's voice was curiously flat.

"But you know what Sherlock's like," she said, exerting a little pressure against his grasp. "They are probably going to charge right into whoever it is on that boat," Cate waved helplessly at the screen which showed the target craft actually breaching the divide between sea and land.

"In which case anything you might do is already too late to be of use," Mycroft's eyes met hers. He blinked slowly. "Least of all for yourself," he smiled gently. "Sherlock and John can take care of whatever comes their way, I have no doubt."

Sliding his fingers tenderly up to her wrist, he tugged her gradually nearer, bringing the back of her hand to his lips. "No heroics tonight, my darling," he dropped his Blackberry into a pocket of his trousers and slid the free hand around her waist, holding her tantalisingly close. "Not this time."

###

It was the flare of the lighter that had given the man's identity away, of course, Tomas realised as he wondered how Sherlock could have recognised anyone at such a distance in the dark. But how on earth would they be able to keep the three men … and maybe even more on the boat … from leaving whenever they wanted?

As if reading those exact thoughts, Sherlock turned to John. "Your phone, please," he said, holding out a hand.

Digging into his jacket pocket, John handed over his mobile. "Why do you need my phone?" he asked. "Yours was working perfectly well last time I looked."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock nodded, his fingers turning the volume down to zero before dialling a short number. "But as the data stored on mine are more important than those stored on yours," he said, shielding the soft glow from the screen in his hand. "Of the two, I prefer not to lose mine."

"What _are_ you talking about?" John frowned. "Has the smell of that stuff started to affect you too?"

Holding John's phone in his hand, Sherlock flattened himself against the inner lip of the cave's entrance. "I have to get this into the boat," he said, waving the slim device. "It's too far to throw this in the dark without being seen, and were any of us to attempt moving closer, at least one of those three on the beach would spot such movement in an instant. I need a distraction."

"Why are you planning to throw my phone into their boat?" John's mouth compressed in a straight line. This would be at least the fourth one he had been called upon to sacrifice at the altar of Sherlock's ingenuity.

"The _Speaking Clock_, John," Sherlock's faint smile was barely visible in the revealed glow of the phone's screen as he turned it towards John's gaze. "It never goes silent and therefore the call will not automatically close until the battery runs out," he paused, frowning. "I do hope you've had the foresight to keep your battery charged?"

"And the reason you want this call to last until my battery runs out, _is_ ..?"

"An open call can be _traced_," Sherlock muttered. "Your phone's demise will not be in vain. If we can't stop these men from departing in their boat, at least Mycroft's people should be able to locate the signal and send in the cavalry."

"Then shouldn't you be calling your brother?" John was resigned. It wasn't as if this was the first personal item he'd lost to a Holmesian caprice.

"Trying," Sherlock whispered. "Can't get any reception in here; the rock's too thick. I need to get out in the open."

"I'm smaller than the both of you and probably a bit faster as well," Tomas was fortunate not to see John's eyes narrow at the comment. "Give me both phones, and I can chuck one into the boat and call Uncle Mycroft on the other once I get into the shadow of those rocks over there," he pointed at a deeply-black ravine some thirty feet from the entrance of their cave. "All I'll need is a bit of a distraction so they're not looking at me when I make a run for it."

"There is not one chance in hell we're going to let you do anything so damn silly," John caught the shoulder of the boy's jacket and hauled him a little deeper into the cave. "You're already walking on thin ice after this afternoon's escapade, so don't bring it up again, okay?"

"_You_ were going to do it," Tomas grumbled, turning to face Sherlock. "And the odds are far more in my favour than they are in yours," he said. "If you've got a piece of paper and a pen, I'll show you."

"Now is not the time for a lesson in the calculation of odds," Sherlock was staring out through the cave's entrance where it looked as if the three men were getting ready to move. "I need to distract them in such a way that will make them hold their position rather than relinquish it."

"Then what about these?" Tomas picked up a couple of hefty, sea-worn stones. "You've got longer arms than me, but I bet I can throw them just as far as you can."

In light of nothing better suggesting itself, Sherlock nodded, gathering up a handful of smaller pebbles. "When I say," he whispered, "aim your fire at the other side of the boat, even into the water beyond, if you can get it that far."

Arraying themselves across the pitch-dark entrance of the cave, as far out as they dared without being spotted, all three poised to make a throw.

"_Now_," Sherlock whispered, as their volleyed ammunition shot out into the dark sky over and above the profile of the boat. It was a matter of only a couple of seconds before there was a mass _thunk_ as all the rocks hit almost in the same instant, making a very satisfying racket. It sounded for all the world as if someone watching in the dark had slipped on a rock and was now attempting to be very, _very_ silent.

Instantly, the three men leaning against the bow of the beached craft ducked low, all of them straining to see where the noise had come from and wondering what was going to happen next. Unaware of their audience in the mouth of the cave, Bisset, his compatriot and their mysterious passenger gradually edged around the point of the bow; crawling with their bellies in the cool sand in the hopes they might be able to make out the interloper.

It was that exact moment Tomas plucked John's phone out of Sherlock's lightly-closed fingers and ran like a hare towards the rocks on the moon-dark side of the boat.

###

"How long to intercept?" Mycroft was back on the phone with Beaumont who had rung to confirm the unit of commandos had been dispatched from the _Westminster_. Two groups of four men, each group in a small inflatable, each fully equipped for a night operation.

"Only eight?" Mycroft's expression suggested he was unconvinced. He wanted to be absolutely sure of capturing whoever it might be in the boat about to beach itself in the secret cove below his house. "I want no chances taken," he sounded deadly.

"Mycroft, have you ever _seen_ these guys in action?" Beaumont barely managed to restrain his enthusiasm. "They will probably use two or three of them to get the job done while the others ensure a safe perimeter," he added. "These are serious bad-asses and I'm doing you a real favour by not passing on your concerns."

"_Bad-asses_, Mr Beaumont?" Mycroft found himself smiling. "Your nationality is showing."

"Intercept in approximately nine-minutes," Alex Beaumont grinned down the phone, Mycroft could hear it in the man's voice. "I'll call you back when it's all over."

###

"_Shit_," John hissed, hugging the inner curve of the cave's entrance as he watched Tomas scuttle silently along the edge of the far rocks. Fortunately, the boy's clothing, other than his jacket which he had at least had the intelligence to remove before his mad dash, was all dark cotton: nothing to contrast against the background or gleam in the rising moonlight. As long as his hurtling footsteps in the sand weren't heard and as long as he was able to make the relative shelter of the crevasse in the rocks, he might just get away with this. But there would be a reckoning; he promised himself, assuming Cate's idiot nephew managed not to get himself blown away in the interim.

"Not quite the plan I had in mind, but at least Tomas is sufficiently close to get your phone into the boat," Sherlock tried his Blackberry again, holding it out of the entrance as far as he could. There was still no reception. Therefore it was not only the cave itself that was blocking the signal, but likely also a problem getting a signal down into this deep little cove in the first place. In this case, they could assume no assistance would be forthcoming from external sources.

"Don't tell me you approve of such rash behaviour?" John scowled, watching the three men in the shadow of the boat as they gradually regained their feet, still peering through the darkness for whatever it was that had made the earlier noise.

"He _is_ closely related to Cate," Sherlock sounded fatalistic. "The similarities between them are quite marked."

"Not even Cate would be _that_ reckless," John stared out into the dark as the boy waved back from his place of safety behind the sheltering wedge of rock.

"Cate's not a fifteen year-old boy," the younger Holmes watched as Tomas peered cautiously over the top of his limpet-encrusted concealment. "Imagine what she would have been like at his age."

"Don't think I'll bother, actually," John gritted his teeth as, observing none of the three men from the boat looking in his direction, Tomas decided to lean out and lob the purloined phone over the gunwales of the beached vessel and their eyes followed the slow arc of the device as its fall cleared all obstacles. There was the faintest of noises as it landed, but even that was partially obscured by the waves on the sand. It was a safe bet that none of the three men still staring out into the darkness had heard much.

About to consider making a dash back into the cave, Tomas realised that he would need another distraction. Bending down, he scrambled in the increasingly waterlogged sand around his feet to locate anything in the way of a loose rock or heavy piece of detritus that he might use to divert the mens' attention away from any run of his back to the entrance of the cave. There was nothing small enough to lift, let alone throw.

The first wisps of concern spiralled up the boy's spine.

If he attempted to go for the cave without first distracting the men in the boat, it was highly unlikely he'd make it unobserved. If he stayed where he was, any accidental sound might give him away.

A cold sensation around his feet made him look down. No longer just waterlogged sand, but actual _water_. The tide had turned and was on its way back up the beach.

He mightn't be able to make a run for the cave, but neither could he stay where he was.

As a cold sensation of real unease settled in his stomach, he looked towards the mouth of the cave to see if either Sherlock or John had noticed his plight. Staring into the darker shadow that was the cave, he saw something that looked like a hand. A hand holding up five fingers.

As he watched, one of the fingers disappeared. Then another. Then another.

_A count-down_.

Hoping he had got the correct message, Tomas waited until the moment the final finger vanished, then began his sprint back towards the cave.

At almost, but _not_ _quite_ _exactly_ the same moment that Tomas had begun to run, another barrage of stones flew out over the top of the beached craft to land noisily on rocks and in the rising tide, the sound of his racing steps painfully clear for a second before the landing stones attempted a diversion.

As the men lurking beneath the bows of the boat snapped their heads around to locate the footsteps, it was impossible for them to miss the fast-moving form heading towards the cave.

Standing abruptly, all three turned to stare at the unseen opening of the cave, not realising until now that there even _was_ a cave in the cliff – since they only came here at night, it had always been just a blacker shadow among others.

But now they knew, and they also knew that at least _one_ someone had seen them, possibly even identify them. That someone had to be dealt with.

"Wait," Joubert heaved himself back up the rope-ladder and in only a matter of seconds, threw a couple of torches down onto the sand at the feet of the other two as he jumped down with a soft thud.

Flicking their torches to high-beam, the three men moved slowly towards the entrance of the smugglers cave.

###

There were now another two ghostly-green blips on the laptop-screen: smaller than the boat which had been stationary on the shore for several minutes. These two new ones were so small, their shapes were really no more than luminous blobs, but by the trajectory and speed of their approach, it was clear the marines from the _Westminster_ were about to engage with the master of the beached vessel. It was only another four minutes, perhaps, before they made land.

In a corner of his mind, Mycroft almost wished he could be there to watch the resultant excitement, especially if it really was Bisset. The man and his nefarious activities had tested the better part of his good nature for far too long, and the idea of being in at the kill was a particularly attractive one.

However, he could scarcely indulge himself in an activity from which he had excluded Cate: were he to set a precedent in _that_ direction, he'd never be able to dissuade her from doing anything at all, and that way lay madness.

The two glowing blips were three minutes away now. He wondered what Sherlock was doing.

###

It was only when Tomas hurled himself through the narrow rocky entrance that John was able to intimate there might be an unsympathetic and physical response to his spontaneous little jaunt. Had there not been three unpleasant and in all probability, very _bad_ men fast approaching their refuge, then words would have been accompanied with a certain level of aggression. Shouting would not have been out of the picture.

Preferring to get the boy to a safe place before berating the crap out of him, John contented himself with a low growl as he manhandled Tomas towards the lowest step of the passage back up to the Cornish house.

"You better be able to run faster than that, you little sod," he snapped, shoving him forcibly upwards.

Deeming it wise to say nothing until things had calmed, Tomas took one look at the expression on John's face, then headed for the steps, his feet flying.

Sherlock brought up the rear, his long legs able to take some of the steps two-at-a-time, and John just ran like hell. Between the three of them, they had almost achieved the relative safety of the old iron gate before they were caught in the torchlight of the three men chasing them. Sherlock observed his trailing foot momentarily silhouetted against the step in front of him and knew they'd been spotted. Yet the gate was mere yards away. Could they make it before they were trapped like deer in car-headlights?

Wrenching the gate open, Tomas was first through, followed in the next second by John, the younger Holmes dragging the barrier closed behind him, forcing the latch back into its rusted old holder.

"I need something to wedge this into place," he muttered, holding it in still with one hand while patting his jacket pockets with the other.

"I've got a pen," John held it our without much optimism. It was a lightweight plastic felt pen and Sherlock grabbed it with alacrity.

"Perfect," he acknowledged, stabbing the entire body of the pen as deep as he possibly could into the narrow brace of the gate's latch. There was a faint crack as the casing gave way under the abnormal pressure, but it seemed to be thoroughly wedged.

"This isn't going to hold them long once they find out where and what the obstacle is," Sherlock looked straight into Tomas' eyes. "I want you to run to the house and alert my brother in case they make it past us and up to the bookroom," he said. "Someone is going to have to be there to stop them."

"You want me to leave you?" Tomas looked aghast, as if deserting them was the worst possible thing they might have suggested.

"_Go!"_ John's arm shot out, his index finger stabbing into the dark above them. Such was the imperative in his voice that the boy took off without a backward glance.

"Still enjoy pulling rank, then?" Sherlock grinned briefly.

"I am so going to kick his arse when this is all over," John shook his head and pulled a deep breath into his lungs. "If we're going to try and slow them down, then we need to take cover somewhere and make a stand."

"They may have guns," Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Might be dangerous."

"Yeah, yeah," John made a weary face. "Bit late for that now."

On the far side of the gate, there was the unmistakable sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, pausing as they reached the faked cave-in. Would it be enough to convince them that nobody else could have come this way? The pursuers had been so close, it would have been impossible for anyone to have got passed them and there had been no option to branch off into an alternate direction. It would be obvious to any but the rankest idiot that this had to be the route of escape. All that remained was for one of the pursuers to successfully navigate the blockage and further escape became moot.

There was a guttural murmuring on the far side of the gate before Sherlock sensed the artfully created _trompe lóile_ being carefully prodded. It took only moments for its deceptive nature to be discovered.

"We'll soon find out if there is a gun," Sherlock whispered, flattening himself behind slight outcrop in the wall. John was very swiftly beside him, both holding their breath as they waited.

They didn't have to wait long. With an almighty crash of noise, there were two, closely-spaced reports of a handgun, one round striking the iron of the gate, making it reverberate with a sound of metallic anguish, while the second round passed clear through both sets of artifice as well as the gate to ricochet off the tunnel wall some several yards behind them.

"There's definitely a gun, then," John sighed. "Mean's we can't stay here and hold the fort without getting shot, so we'd better retreat to a more strategic spot."

"They're not the only ones with weapons," Sherlock was already moving up the steps that would lead them shortly into the widened chamber with the table and candles. "I have a plan, but we need to be quick."

Running up the stone steps behind his flatmate, John wondered what fresh lunacy his friend was about to unleash. He wondered what Mycroft was doing.

###

"There is a hidden entrance behind this … material," Joubert waved at the fake landslide with the barrel of the Luger in his hand. "Whoever was watching us on the beach has gone through here and may be waiting on the other side with weapons," he turned to Bisset. "Do we risk it?" he asked.

"There is no choice," the rough, gravelled voice of their previously silent passenger echoed unpleasantly around the cold stone walls of the tunnel.

Both Frenchmen turned to him in surprise. "Why no choice?" Bisset didn't much care for being told what to do. "They probably never saw us before, wouldn't have been able to see much of us in the dark and most likely couldn't describe us if their lives depended on it," Bisset sniffed dismissively. "I doubt the effort is worth the risk."

"Someone saw me and they ran," Elbaneh spoke softly but with intent. "I have not paid you a king's ransom only to be betrayed to the British authorities by some accidental witness," he said. "You will go through there and risk possible attack," Elbaneh smiled nastily as he produced a small Beretta and aimed it squarely at Bisset's chest, "or risk certain death," his tone was mild. "Your choice."

The Frenchman was nothing if not pragmatic. Narrowing his eyes, he gave a classic Gallic shrug. "Fair enough," he said. "But you better keep that thing in your hand for the rest of the time we're together," he smiled, just as nastily as the other.

"There's a metal gate underneath all this," Joubert's arm was invisible from the shoulder-down as he fumbled deeper inside the old daubed canvas. His fingers located and fiddled with a heavy latch. It was stuck, but if someone else had made it through here, then it was certain they could. He gave the handle a violent upwards tug and felt, as much as heard something give a soft _crunch_ as the latch came loose in his fingers.

Looking carefully between Bisset's black expression, he wondered if shooting their erstwhile passenger might be a poor business-choice. Eventually, he took a deep breath and pushed the opened gate inwards and edged cautiously through, waving his torch at eye-height.

There was nothing inside but darkness and more steps. "We go up, then," he said.

###

Tomas burst out of the secret passage into the bookroom just as Mycroft and Cate entered through the room's main door.

"There's three men chasing us with guns!" the boy's chest heaved. "Sherlock said one of the men was a guy called Tontini Albanay, or something," he choked; dragging in huge lungful's of air.

"Totoni Elbaneh?" Mycroft's voice was suddenly very sharp. "You're sure?"

Nodding rather than attempt further speech, Tomas stood, resting his hands on his knees as his breathing regulated.

"John sent me up here to warn you that they might not be able to be stopped and for you to close this door and call for help."

The shadow of a smile crossed Mycroft's face. "There is no need," he said. "Help is here."

Taking pity on the pained look of confusion on her nephew's face, Cate went to hold him up. "Your uncle is having the marines come in from a ship," she nodded soothingly. "They're already on the beach."

"But they won't know how to find the passage entrance in the cave!" he cried. "Sherlock and John need to be told!"

"Tomas, I can assure you …" but Mycroft's words ended in thin air as Tomas dashed back into the tunnel, dragging the bookshelf across the gaping entrance as he did. It closed silently but with a decided _click_.

Standing almost beside the closed bookshelf, Cate took one look at Mycroft who seemed about to say something.

"Not a word," she directed, holding up her index-finger, palm towards him. "Not a single word," she added, turning and lifting her fingers towards _Rasselas_ she pulled the book towards her and waited for the bookshelf to swing open again.

###

As Joubert edged silently up the continuous staircase, there was nothing but still, cold air, although he could swear there was an acrid whiff of smoke hanging in the space ahead. Holding the Luger steady, he walked up the next couple of steps and onto a much wider, flatter area of masoned stone. There was still no light to see by, but his torch was able to pick out the wider dimensions of the area: large heavy flagstones on the floor, mostly smooth and well-wrought walls cut from the rock itself. It also looked as if there'd been a fight at some point: there were chairs overturned, and an old table on its side. The smell of recent smoke was stronger.

"There's nobody here," he hissed, waving Bisset up beside him and completely ignoring the other man.

It was only when all three of them were stationery at the top of the lower staircase that John and Sherlock leaped up from their hiding-place behind the hastily overturned table and began pelting the interlopers with handfuls of a stinking, clay-like substance.

As Joubert and Elbaneh levelled their weapons to fire, both Sherlock and John immediately stopped hurling the rank substance, lifting their arms into the air almost as if by some pre-agreed action.

"We surrender," Sherlock's voice was perfectly steady, as he made no movement at all that might be construed as belligerent. John was equally still.

"Yes," the blonde man added. "Completely surrendering, here."

"What _is_ this stuff?" Bisset used both hands to scrape off the sticky, noxious paste that was on his face and arms as well now, as all over his hands. He spat. Some of the foul muck had even touched his mouth. "What is this you have thrown at us … _mud?_"

Shaking his head and looking a touch apologetic, Sherlock shrugged. "A deadly toxin, that's polluted the earth around this house," he offered, casually. "If you don't wash it off within the next ten minutes, it'll have permeated your skin and reached your bloodstream," he sounded offhand. "Up to you, of course," he added. "But I'd be making a sharpish move back down to the beach right about now, were I you."

"_Ha!_ This is no poison," Elbaneh scorned, wiping the oily residue off his face. "If it were, you'd both be risking your lives just by touching it with your hands."

"If you care to shine your torches up here," Sherlock and John waggled their hands in unison. "You'll see we came prepared," he added, as the combined sweep of three torches caught and reflected the shiny plastic of two long pairs of HAZMAT protective gloves.

A horrible uncertainty crossed Joubert's face. The material stank horribly, that was true, but was it really a poison?

"As I said," Sherlock sounded bored now. "You really should consider getting that stuff washed off as soon as you can. By my count, you have less than five minutes before it soaks into your skin and it's nasty stuff."

"Very nasty stuff,' John nodded. "And I'm a doctor, so I would know."

The anger that had been slowly building in Totoni Elbaneh's heart began an open simmer. Stepping forward he pointed his torch directly at the tall, dark-haired man.

"In my country, we believe in an eye for an eye," he snarled, aiming the compact Beretta at the middle of Sherlock's forehead. "That you tell me I should expect to die means that I may say the same to you," he grinned menacingly as he levelled his weapon. "And I would suggest that you have even less time than you have given me."

It was at that precise moment that, with a shriek like an attacking banshee, Tomas ran across the short stretch of flat stonework, yanked the rusted old machete out of its long-slumber and went for the man with the gun.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_Expecting Anything – Excalibur – Not the Geneva Convention – An Interested Party – The Holmes Charm – Mycroft's Test – The Third Child._

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The slick metallic connect of the SA80 assault rifle cocking handle as the weapon is readied for firing has been compared to the closing of a padlock in a bath of oil. Flicking his safety from the small orange 'S', the senior NCO of the two Marine fireteams from _HMS Westminster_ signalled with three fingers of his left hand cast forward. With their night-sights, the eight men currently running two inflatables out of the water were able to see the beach, the cliffs and the entire environs of the cove as clear as a greenish-tinged day.

Squad-leader Sergeant Patrick Calley had been monitoring activity through hi-res binoculars for the last several minutes as they approached the shore and had watched, with interest, as three men had only moments earlier, moved away from the partly-beached boat and chased a fourth person into what appeared to be a cave.

Not knowing what to expect and therefore knowing to expect anything, Calley arrayed four men around the perimeter of the beach, sending one climbing up the steep grassy-slope to gain height and perspective while the other three melted into the darkness.

He took the remaining members of his team silently into the cave, each man treading softly and cautiously on the sand floor.

With their enhanced night vision, it was a matter of only seconds to make certain the cave was empty of human forms. Nor was the fracture in the cliff that deep a formation: there was nowhere for anyone to hide. Where had the men gone? A single tap on his shoulder turned the squad-leader's head around until he was facing into the left-hand forward quadrant of the cave, a very dark spot tucked in right behind the lip of the cave opening where few eyes would think to look for anything, especially if daylight from the entrance were reducing an ability to see the dark.

Just _there_. A darker strip of shadow, a narrow exit leading up from the rounded bedrock. Stepping closer, he was able to see the natural flow of rock was only visible in the cave itself: looking deeper into the exit, he saw the beginning of hand-carved steps.

He nodded at his associates. They would be doing a little climbing tonight.

###

Getting the gun out of the man's hand was as far ahead as Tomas had managed to think. In his mad charge across the few feet of paved stone, he had scant time to consider what might happen next, but reasoned that, if there were no gun, then whatever else came next surely couldn't be that bad. All he knew was that a man who had chased him into the cave was about to shoot Sherlock and Tomas couldn't bear the idea. The men from the boat had been trying to catch _him_ and the knowledge that someone else might have to pay for _his_ lack of thought was unacceptable.

As soon as he'd crept back down to the steps at the dark edge of the open table area, he'd heard the man's threats; that he was going to kill Sherlock; that he was going to use the gun.

Thus the gun had to go.

Tomas had no illusions about his physical strength: if any of the men managed to get their hands on him, he'd have no chance at all; therefore speed and surprise were his only options. His first idea was to hurl himself at the gun-wielding man, but he saw that would do little good, not unless he had something else with which to frighten him.

Then he saw the rusted, ancient machete, thrust somehow into the heart of the wooden post. There was no way it could be shifted, not even Uncle Mycroft had been able to shift it. These points passed through Tomas' thoughts in a second but when the man with the gun pointed it at Sherlock's head, all logic vanished; he simply screamed and ran, heaving the weapon out of the wood as a modern-day Arthur might extract his Excalibur.

As the first rising wail of terrible sound, Totoni Elbaneh froze, only momentarily, but sufficiently long for a wild-eyed, screaming assailant to hack at his gun with a huge knife. As the rusted edge of the blade descended, sliding horribly down along the top of the barrel and finally catching on the front sight, Elbaneh felt the gun torn from his already-numbing fingers by the force of the blow. It flew away from him and clattered across the floor.

Carried forward on a tide of pure adrenaline and fear, Tomas waved the cracked blade at the man's chin, although he wasn't sure what to do next, not really having thought of anything after he started running. His list of alternatives non-existent.

"I suggest nobody moves," Sherlock's voice was calm but authoritative as he walked forward with Elbaneh's Beretta held firmly in his right hand.

As the realisation that he might not be responsible for anyone's death tonight, Tomas felt his knees go funny and he sagged to the floor, clawing at the rough wall as he crumpled.

Sparing the boy only a brief glance, Sherlock gestured with the gun. "If you run, gentlemen," he said, turning to Bisset and Joubert. "You might still be able to make it to the water before the contaminant permeates the dermis and you become seriously unwell," he added. "I genuinely recommend a swift bath. Better scrub hard, just to make sure."

"This muck really is poisonous?" Joubert's face was stricken. "You were not lying?"

"Not lying," John stepped forward. "You should get that stuff off fairly quickly now, and should see a doctor in case it affects your breathing. Wouldn't want you to die before you get the chance to explain what you're doing with a known terrorist on a Cornish beach, would we?"

"Terrorist? _Die?_" Bisset headed back down the steps at speed.

Staring between the gun in the tall man's fingers and the grave look in the blonde man's eyes, Joubert decided that a cold, salty bath might not be such a bad idea and propelled himself down the steps after his captain. They made it all the way to the old iron gate, yanking it open, only to find themselves making an intimate acquaintance with the business-end of two SA80s.

"Evening, _Gentlemen_," Commando squad-leader Patrick Calley smiled.

###

Elbaneh stood, grim-faced and silent as John tipped the table back upright and re-lit the candles. The oppressive darkness gave way to a muted glow.

"Not your lucky night," Sherlock looked impassive. "Caught the minute you step foot on British soil, then poisoned by the same stuff. You should have stayed in hiding," he said. "And now we have the dreary job of holding you until the police get here, although you'll probably be unconscious by then, so I don't suppose we'll have much to concern ourselves with at that point."

"Even if you are telling the truth, you would not let me die," Elbaneh scowled. "It is unlawful in your country for the police to allow harm to come to prisoners. You do not frighten me."

"Firstly, Mr Elbaneh," Sherlock held the Beretta very still, "we are not the police," he looked at John. "Before you see to our young Galahad," he said, "pull one of those chairs up, would you?"

Stepping back, John righted one of the old chairs they'd tossed aside as emergency cover.

"There's a coil of cord in my left pocket. After you've removed your gloves, tie our guest to the chair, please John," he paused. "Nice and tight, I think. We don't want him falling over and banging his head when he passes out, do we?"

There was a satisfied little smile on the doctor's face as he found the cord and slowly unravelled it, yanking it hard between his hands several times to test its efficacy.

Elbaneh was starting to feel concerned. If they were not the police, then this mud on his skin might truly be deadly and they were going to tie him to the chair … "You cannot leave me here," he spluttered. "If I am poisoned, you cannot leave me to die!"

"Oh, but I think we can do whatever we wish," Sherlock's voice was a lethal blend of callousness and disdain.

"The Marines are on their way up from the beach," Tomas groaned as he gave up trying to stand. "Uncle Mycroft arranged for them to come in from some ship. They should be here any moment …" he paused, eyes drawn to the far side of the space by the sound of scuffled footfalls on the dry stone, "…now," he said, as two commandos walked silently into the candlelight.

"One of you chaps called Holmes?" the leading marine asked, his rifle poised as he took in the scene.

"That would be me," Sherlock scrutinised the man's stance, "…_Sergeant_," the younger Holmes held out Elbaneh's gun. "I imagine you have the other two?"

"Indeed we do, Mr Holmes," the man grinned: shining white teeth in the middle of a dark-painted face. Checking the safety, he shoved the proffered weapon deep into a side-pocket. "They were screaming about being poisoned and demanded to go in the sea," he added. "That would be your doing, I assume?"

"As long as they can scrub the slurry off their skin, they should be perfectly well, although you might like to keep an eye on them."

"What was it?" Sergeant Calley looked interested. "In case the medics want to know; they tend to worry about minor things like death, you understand."

"A recombination of DDT and metallic salts," Sherlock made a face. "Highly toxic once it enters the bloodstream, but complete dermal decontamination and rapid treatment with activated charcoal, plus stimulated bowel-activity to enhance faecal elimination should have them sorted out in a jiffy."

"Strip them, hose them down and feed them laxatives?" the commando laughed. "Sounds like something the Geneva Convention would frown on."

"Or they can get horribly sick," John grinned. "I think you'll find they'll be happy to endure the treatment."

"What do you want to do with this one?" Calley nodded at an increasingly woebegone Elbaneh.

"I think you'd better treat him with the others," Sherlock was thoughtful. "His name is Totoni Elbaneh and you'll find the FBI will be fairly interested in getting their hands on him."

"The FBI? Really?" Sergeant Calley lifted both eyebrows and looked fairly interested himself. "Always nice when we can assist our cousins across the pond," he said, his smile returning. "Is there anything else you need from us here or shall I advise command we're done for the night?"

"Can you impound the boat that's on the beach?" John stepped forward. "It belongs to one of the men you have under restraint and it's clear it's being used for improper purposes, so better it be in safe hands," the doctor smiled cheerily. "I'm sure you can find a good use for it," he said. "Training and the like …"

"There's always a need for target-practice," the commando nodded, entirely sincere. "I'll have a couple of my men remove it to a neutral location until the powers-that-be decide what's to be done," he added, already beginning to step back. "Take him," he nodded at Elbaneh, as the other marine waited for instructions.

In moments, even the whisper-sounds of their footsteps had gone.

John met Sherlock's eyes and sighed, as they both turned and looked down. Tomas was still crouched on the floor, his back to the wall, arms around his knees and with his eyes closed.

"I know you hate me now, so just get the shouting over with, will you?" he mumbled. "And before you start," he added. "Everything you're about to tell me off for is perfectly fine except the last bit."

"What last bit?" John grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled the boy upright until he was leaning against the wall and looking sick.

"The bit when I came screaming in here and attacked a man with a gun … _oh my God_," he groaned, bringing his hands to his face again. "I can't believe I did anything so dumb," he moaned, starting to slide back to the cold floor.

"Oh no you don't," John dragged him back to his feet. "Not until you tell your Uncle Mycroft about what you just did."

"He'll think I'm an idiot," Tomas looked sick again. "He'll hate me too."

"He already knows you're an idiot, and my brother is far too selfish to waste emotion," Sherlock observed. "Hurry up," he frowned at the teenager. "We have a cure to produce."

###

When Cate woke the next morning, she knew without moving that she was alone in the bed. After the previous night, with all the excitement of the boat on the beach and the marines and then her nephew's personal tale of deeply mournful remorse which would have been acceptable had he not entirely forgotten to be woeful about half-way through. She smiled. It was difficult to remain angry with Tomas, especially as she understood his motivation so well. Mycroft had been all tight-lipped frowns until the boy presented him with the machete, old and rusted though it was. The group-conversation immediately turned to the seven-fold method of Japanese sword-smithing and comparisons were about to be made between Occidental and Oriental metallurgy, when she declared enough was enough and dragged the teen away to the front room where she handed him a phone.

"Your mother," she directed. "Right now."

"What should I tell her?" Tomas looked lost. "What should I say?"

"You tell her everything and you say it like the grown-up your uncle expects you to be," she said, standing with her arms folded until he made the call and spoke to Neve. As soon as the conversation was underway, Cate returned to the kitchen where Mycroft and Sherlock were still debating the finer points of low carbon _hocho-tetsu_.

"Tea?" she smiled at John.

"You have no idea how good that sounds," he sighed.

Bringing out another of Nora's masterpieces, John sighed again as he sipped his tea and chewed on a slab of sticky fruitcake. "Sherlock knows what made Mycroft ill," he said in passing. "I think he's got an idea what to do about it, too," he added.

"How soon?" Cate spoke softly into her cup, unwilling to tempt fate by an open acknowledgement.

"Soon, I think," John's tones were equally low. "Tonight, perhaps."

"And when will we know if it's worked?" she asked, a tension growing in her stomach. _What if it didn't work? How would Mycroft cope?_

"No idea really," the doctor sipped tea and sounded thoughtful. "But if it's a chemical imbalance, or a problem caused by the overproduction of some minor enzyme or hormone, then it could equally be as fast to fix as it was to damage. Just remember," he said, "to keep an open mind about all this. Even someone like Mycroft has to be finding all this a little scary."

_Not only Mycroft_, she thought.

He had been particularly demonstrative when he came to bed later, his fingertips brushing her skin as his mouth claimed endless kisses of unending variety until her mind as well as her body was on fire for him.

"_I love you_," his whisper against her throat was the last she heard as sleep rolled over them both.

And now it was morning; the sun was rising and birds were singing and she was alone in their bed. Cate felt suddenly very afraid.

Throwing back the duvet, she pulled on a long cotton robe and headed down to the still-quiet kitchen, too early yet for Mrs Compton or the twins.

Opening the door, she saw the three of them seated around the old wooden table, their faces turning to her as she entered. There was a small box on the table in front of John that he tucked into his pocket with a slight smile. Mycroft's left sleeve was rolled up and there was a spot of red at the inside of his elbow. He didn't bother to roll it down, but held out his hand to her.

"Did we wake you?" he brought her fingers to his lips.

"What have you taken?" Cate stood still, breathless with anxiety.

"An ion-exchange resin, similar in action to cholestyramine but designed specifically to match a unique organochlorine I was able to identify," Sherlock linked his fingers and nodded. "It should catalyse the remaining toxin in the bloodstream while simultaneously isolating and purifying the reaction," he paused, looking down at his fingers. "It should work."

"You didn't think I would want to know?" she looked down into blue eyes. "That I might be an interested party in all this?"

"You are frightened for me," Mycroft stood then, an arm suddenly around her shoulders, bringing her close to his chest. "Don't be."

"Easy for you bloody Holmes's to say," she muttered, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "If you get worse I am going to be extraordinarily cross with the both of you, you know this, don't you?"

"Sherlock and I have several escape-routes at our disposal, but I doubt they will be needed," Mycroft's voice sounded amused in her ear.

"They better not be," she listened to his heartbeat. It was normal and solid and Cate found herself relaxing. They would all just have to wait and see.

###

Knowing that Sherlock and John were heading back to London before lunch, Cate made her farewells while Mycroft was closeted on the phone with his Chief of Security.

"Thank you," she hugged Sherlock close, unwilling to let him go just yet. She felt his hands rest lightly around her shoulders.

"I have every confidence my brother will recover his full intellectual capacity," his voice was confident and calm above her head. "As much as he might be said to possess such a thing," he added, with benign malice.

Cate smiled. "You are such a troll," she prodded him ungently as she went to hug John. "Thank you for taking care of Tomas and not strangling him," she said, pressing into his arms. "It would have been difficult to explain to my sister."

"Plenty of time for strangling in the future," John grinned, kissing her on the cheek. "See you all back in town after we've finished doing a little bit of clear-up work for your husband."

Lifting her eyebrows, Cate was curious but knew it was probably better not to ask. "Then take care," she said smiling from one to the other. "The both of you."

Once they had parted, she walked the twins and Tomas back down to the beach for a few hours before the sun climbed too high and became too hot for tender skins.

Her nephew had a natural way with the children and instead of getting to grips with her unco-operative novel, Cate found herself fascinated at the manner in which the teenaged boy was able to invent and take part in some wildly imaginative games with two small children. Though she kept the twins to the pool, Tomas was able to wade out into the shallow waters of the cove and bring back all sorts of things for them to play with: shells, worn and rounded driftwood and even a small crab which they put into a rock pool. Julius barely moved for the rest of the morning, his hazel eyes alight with his first close encounter of different life.

Watching his enthrallment, Cate wondered if they should get a puppy. She looked at Blythe. _Puppies_.

Hiking back up to the house in the late morning, Nora not only had lunch ready for the twins, but a cake of such extravagance and magnitude that everyone stared. It was more an architectural edifice than a piece of baked confectionary.

"My God, Nora," Cate held her breath. "Is it meant to be eaten or worshipped?"

"It's for the young lads at the camp, Miss Cate," the older woman smiled widely, entirely satisfied by the response to her little bit of cooking.

Jules' eyes were the size of bicycle headlamps as he watched the cake make its stately way back into the pantry. He turned to his mother, eyebrows raised high and for the briefest of moments, Cate saw a very young Sherlock. It was impossible to stop the smile that came to her face.

"Is Nanny Nora's cake for us?" her son was intensely hopeful.

"Not this time, my darling," she smiled again as his eyebrows dropped. "It's for some boys and girls who don't have cake very often, so Nanny Nora has made them an especially big one so it will last a long time." _Probably about ten minutes after it arrives_, she thought.

"Is she going to make any cakes for us again?" Jules sounded so sad that Cate was pressed not to laugh.

"I think there will be lots more cakes, lovely boy, but you will have to be very nice to her always."

Nodding very seriously, Jules slipped off his chair and went to start being nice _immediately_.

Deciding an attempt to transport the enormous cake by hand and on foot would be madness and seeing that he still appeared to be feeling well, Cate asked Mycroft to drive her to the camp, after Nora announced she'd better get another edifice in the making. Evidently Jules' attempt at niceness had paid off, having guilted the housekeeper into a minor frenzy of baking.

"Your son is becoming as devious as you," Cate held the cake box very carefully as Mycroft took the Landrover around a sharp bend in the lane. Though he said nothing, she saw his mouth curve. "We shall probably have to ply Nora with vast amounts of very good sherry in order to calm her frazzled nerves," she added. "I have no idea what Jules said, but she had the cake pans out even before he and Blythe had finished lunch."

"The Holmes charm strikes again," Mycroft kept his eyes on the road ahead, but by the way his eyes crinkled, Cate could see he was greatly entertained.

"Holmes sweet-talk, you mean," she smiled, shaking her head.

Mycroft stopped the car, took her face in both hands and kissed her adeptly. "You like my sweet-talk," he said, starting the engine again.

With hands full of cake, Cate was unable to respond in the way that crossed her mind, and so she looked out of the window on her side of the Landrover and grinned.

As they pulled to a halt in the clearing beside the camp, Leander Purrun recognised the vehicle and walked forward with a happy expression. "Welcome again," he said. "Your timing is excellent; my grandson arrived home not thirty minutes ago, and the excitement is dying down a little."

"I have a gift from the lady who makes us such spectacular cakes," Cate smiled, handing him the carefully-boxed up cake. "Nora always keeps her promises," she added, lifting the lid enabling Purrun to see inside.

Giving a silent whistle, Leander grinned at her. "The children will think it's Christmas," he said.

"Then please take it for the children with all our good wishes," Cate stepped back, about to return to the Landrover.

"But you haven't seen my grandson now he has recovered," he exclaimed. "You must … he is so much happier than the last time you saw him and I know my daughter would be pleased to see you again as well."

"As long as we're not intruding," she looked across at Mycroft whose expression was mild but noncommittal.

"Of course not, please … this way," Purrun gestured them both towards a van that had several old chairs arrayed on the grass outside. A small boy was sitting in one of them as his mother fussed, putting his bandaged foot up onto a cushion. Turning at the sound of visitors, Leander's daughter smiled broadly as she recognised them from the hospital.

"He is much better now, as you can see," she said, tousling her son's hair. "And he still has that yellow toy you gave him; tells me he won't let it go until the bandage comes off," she nodded at the binding on the boy's ankle.

"Once the bandage comes off your foot, you can take the bandage off the rabbit's foot too," Cate bent down to the level of a pair of very solemn dark eyes. "I was told you like cake, is that true?"

The boy nodded slowly.

"That's good, because your grandfather has a big cake that needs to be eaten and everyone knows that cake is very good for helping sore feet, did you know that?"

This time, the head shook from side to side.

"It's true," Cate smiled. "Have some cake and see how good you feel afterwards."

"Will you have some?" the child asked.

"I think I have some waiting for me at home," Cate smiled. "You can have my piece as well and feel twice as better, how would that be?"

"_Okay_," the boy smiled for the first time.

The child's mother walked over with a slice of cake and gave it to her youngest son, watching fondly as he picked at it slowly with his fingers.

"I must repay all your kindness to me and my boy," she said. "The people at the hospital gave him everything he wanted and let me sleep there in case he was lonely and I am sure it was because of you and your husband," she added. "So I must do something to repay this debt."

"There is no debt at all," Cate shook her head, smiling. "Honestly, we are both happy enough to see the child recovering and safe, that is enough."

Purrun's daughter shook her head, thinking, then grinned. "Let me read your fortune," she said, happily. "I have been told I have a gift for it and am positive it will be nothing but good news. Let me, please?"

Turning to look at Mycroft who still wore the same indistinct expression, Cate shrugged, acquiescing. "If you really want to," she laughed. "I haven't done this in a very long time."

"Come," the woman beckoned her to a chair, pulling up a second chair next to it. "Sit."

Sitting, Cate waited at the woman settled herself. Closing her eyes for a few moments, the Traveller's daughter hummed softly, breathing slowly as her body relaxed.

"Give me your left palm," her voice was almost a sing-song.

Lifting up the desired hand, Cate felt Mycroft stand behind her. Clearly she wasn't the only one who found this intriguing.

Pulling Cate's hand close into her lap, the gypsy drew a slow, deep breath and opened her eyes, focusing on the shape and lines of the palm in front of her. She spent several seconds tipping it from side to side; gently pulling the fingers back to stretch the visible lines, stroked the smooth rise of muscles and the curve of the wrist.

"You are involved with the giving of information to others," Purrun's daughter said abruptly. "This tells me you are a counsellor or someone people ask many question of, perhaps a lawyer or a teacher?"

"I am a teacher, yes," Cate was riveted. Nobody outside the family would have known that little detail.

"But I do not see a small school," the woman shook her head. "You work in a large building in a big city and are highly respected."

_That could have been a clever guess._

"I work at a university in London," Cate lifted her eyes and met Mycroft's gaze as he came to sit in the chair opposite. He crossed his legs and looked amused.

"You sometimes walk a line between the light and the dark," the gypsy spoke softly, hesitantly. "You have crossed that line in the past and have been in grave danger," the woman paused. "You will do so again in the future."

Mycroft's genteel cough made her look up and see his carefully blank expression. A single eyebrow lifted. Cate frowned at him, fascinated now by the reading. _What else was coming?_

"I see pages of words," the woman said. "Many, many white pages covered in black writing, endless in number, and they are all from this hand," she added, looking into Cate's eyes "You are a writer and you are left-handed?"

_There was no way anyone would have been able to tell her that_, Cate thought. She even used her maiden name _Adin_ on her books, so there was no way …

"I see you doubt me," the woman smiled. "But I told you I have a gift for this," she laughed, returning her eyes to Cate's palm.

"You possess a great love for a man," the words were slow, as if the speaker were unsure they were the right ones. "It burns inside you with the fire of the sun, yet you sometimes fear it," a whisper.

Cate felt her face flush. This was stuff so deep she hadn't even thought it herself. She didn't dare look up.

"I also see a craving for adventure and excitement and danger," Purrun's daughter flexed Cate's fingers a little more. "But your passion for this man conquers your other desires and you put them instead into the endless pages of words."

Taking a deep breath, Cate wondered if that was it. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hear any more.

"I know you have two children," the woman continued, but I see you have been thinking a great deal about your next child."

Cate's eyes shot wide open and she stared rigidly at the chair opposite. Mycroft looked as if he'd stopped breathing.

"It will be a male child," the sing-song words kept on. "He will become famous."

"I think you may have that a little wrong," Cate coughed, her throat parched. "I haven't been thinking about children."

"But you _have_," the woman looked confused. "It is so clear that you are longing for this one … is _that_ why you have not spoken about ..?" she stopped, her eyes flicking towards Mycroft, finally realising he was a very interested spectator.

"You will be happy and have good health and good fortune in your future," her voice was upbeat as she finished off, clearly wanting to end on a happy note.

"That was wonderful, thank you," Cate inhaled slowly as she stood, her face still a little warm. "You were incredibly accurate in some of the things you said," she smiled.

"Only _some_?" Purrun's daughter allowed a sly curve to tilt her mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Is that the time? _Goodness_," Cate looked at her watch. "The children will be wanting their tea," smiling brightly, she waved at the youngest grandson who was still deep in his cake. He grinned back, stickily. She waved at Purrun as she headed back to the car.

"Allow me, my love," Mycroft was already at the Landrover with the door open as she approached, still not quite ready to meet his eyes.

The drive back to the Cornish house was brief, uneventful and quiet. Cate wasn't yet sure on the best way to deal with the experience. Laugh gaily and dismiss it out of hand? Shrug and look philosophical? Ignore it completely?

Reaching the Cornish house, Cate slipped from the vehicle and headed towards the front door, only to find that Mycroft was there before her, swinging it open, a strange and somewhat intense cast to his expression.

"Allow _me_, my love," he smiled, pushing the door inwards for her to enter. Stepping into the shaded cool atmosphere was a relief, although, after seeing the twins happily engaged with their evening meal, she felt somewhat at a loss.

"Need any help with dinner, Nora?" she asked, hopefully.

"Not a thing, Miss Cate," the older woman smiled back. "Got some lovely smoked mackerel for your dinner tonight; takes no doing at all, you go off and relax for a while," Nora wiped her hands on a cloth, wandering back into her private realm of magic.

"Cocktails, are called for, I believe," Mycroft linked his arm through hers, drawing Cate into the front room where an eighteenth-century walnut bureau played host to an imaginative assortment of alcoholic beverages.

"Gin and tonic for me, please" Cate sighed, sliding down into the soft chintz-covered sofa. She rubbed a hand across her face. "A large one."

Taking the icy glass from Mycroft's hand and sipping it with unspoken pleasure, Cate allowed her eyes to close as she pondered the meaning of life, the universe and everything. She exhaled, long and slow.

"_So_," Mycroft's voice was suddenly soft in her ear. "Care to enlighten me about these _longings_ of yours?" he was teasing, she could hear it in his voice.

"The boy's mother was clearly delusional," Cate sipped her drink. "Making stuff up for tourists all the time must have affected her thinking."

"And yet she seemed so accurate on so many points," Mycroft's lips brushed the side of her neck. "_So many_ _points_," he repeated softly, nibbling her earlobe.

Cate felt a tremor rise through her. "Lucky guess," she said.

"Which?" Mycroft put his drink down and reached for hers. "The teaching or the writing?"

"Both of them," Cate tried to get her drink back.

"She was so certain about the desire for danger and excitement," he slid an arm behind her back on the sofa, pulling her closer so that he might reach beneath her ear and down the warm skin of her neck. "And that you loved me with the heat of the sun," he muttered, nibbling his way down to her shoulder. "Was she right, Catie?" he murmured as she rested against him, unravelling in the warm circle of his arms. "Do you want another child?"

"The twins and you are quite enough for me to deal with," she sighed as his mouth caressed her throat. "I am honestly not thinking about another baby."

"Then what did she mean that you feared your feelings for me? What would make you frightened, my love?"

It was too much. Cate felt a lump in her throat and fell silent.

"Cate? _Catie_?" Mycroft lifted himself away from her in order to see her eyes. "What is it, darling?"

"Only that I sometimes worry about this not lasting," she closed her eyes and leaned into his warmth again. "I don't know how I'd manage without you now."

She felt his face come to rest in her hair as his arms tightened fiercely for a second. "You need never be afraid of that, my love," he whispered. "Of all the fearful things on this planet, that is one you need not consider."

A moment of silence claimed both their thoughts.

"Dinner won't be for at least another half-an-hour," she pressed her mouth to his. "I might be in need of some additional reassurance."

"A craving for excitement and danger?" she could hear the laughter in his voice.

"Something like that," she smiled back and reached for his hand.

###

It was late afternoon two days after the visit to the traveller's camp, when Mycroft suddenly announced he was to return to London that evening for a crucial meeting, though he would only be up there for the meeting itself and return directly to Cornwall.

"I'll be back late," he said. "Don't stay up for me."

"You absolutely have to go? Absolutely positively?" Cate was about to take the children for a walk around the garden to pick flowers for Nora before tea as a thank you for the lovely cakes. Julius was especially keen on the idea.

"I must," he said. "It's important."

"Then you should go," Cate smiled as she kissed him a lingering goodbye. "I'll keep the bed nice and warm," she kissed him again; enjoying the little haze she was able to put in his eyes.

He drove the Bentley to Land's End Airport, only minutes from the Cornish house. A sleek Cessna Citation ready for him, steps down. By the time he had buckled up, the jet was already taxiing along the short runway.

In less than an hour, he was touching down at London City airport, where the black Jaguar prowled, waiting for him.

As was Anthea.

"Is everything in place?" he asked unceremoniously.

"Everything," she nodded, turning to assess him. "A tan suits you," she observed. "Looks like you've been getting some sleep too, for a change."

"The delights of the English countryside," he smiled briefly. "Let's go."

The journey to a lesser suburb of Gravesend was relatively swift. Darkness was setting in and the roads were clearing. The car headed to a small, post-eighties industrial estate near Ebbsfleet, now mostly container parks and recycling dumps.

And one medium-sized chemical disposal company.

There were stacks of rusting old steel drums for as far as the eye could see, some relatively fresh-looking, while others seemed about to dissolve where they stood. There was an acrid, metallic taint to the air.

Drawing to a silent halt on a close-by rise, Mycroft left the comfort of his car, walking to the very edge of the road overlooking the unsavoury-looking stockpile.

Sherlock and John were already waiting. The night was still and sound carried.

"When?" Sherlock asked without turning, knowing his brother's footstep out of hundreds.

Checking his Hunter, Mycroft took a short breath. "Now," he said.

Virtually simultaneously, the sound of revving engines and shouts rose from the far entrance, as half-a-dozen squads of police including several dog-teams, EU Environmental Commission officials and even a contingent of army engineers descended, _en masse _upon the location.

Havoc reigned for some minutes as various employees yelled and tried to make a fight of it, or ran and tried to hide. It made no difference: they were all rounded up and hustled away.

"Looks like that's it, then," John stuck his hands in his pockets. It hadn't been terribly exciting.

"Not quite," Mycroft stood, unmoving, waiting.

Moments later a single, handcuffed man was led out into the dark shadows towards the foot of the rise upon which the three men stood. The man was clearly unhappy with his singular treatment and attempted a mixture of aggressive bravado and threat. From the violence of his language and the specificity of the threats, it was clear he was the company owner and the one ultimately responsible for the illegal dumping. His escorts led him to a flattened clearing beyond some old metal tanks, right at the foot of the rise.

There was nowhere for the man to run, nowhere to hide. Fear grew on his face. The escorts stepped back and folded their arms.

"As you requested, sir," Anthea handed Mycroft a lightweight Tokyo Marui sniper rifle and a single round of ammunition. Nodding his thanks, the elder Holmes lifted the rifle to his shoulder, chambered the bolt-action round into place and took careful aim.

"_Christ_, Mycroft," John sounded disturbed. Not that he was particularly traumatised by the notion of death _per se_, but this was a little cold-blooded even for a Holmes.

Ignoring everything else, Mycroft closed his left eye, focusing everything through the right. He saw the micro-metered 'scope register a neat circular target in the dead centre of the man's forehead. He held the rifle steady and still for another ten seconds, knowing that, with the most gentle pressure of one finger, the man's life would be forfeit.

The desire for revenge, the ripples such an act would have, tendrils of consequence and retribution, the wider picture and the deeper importance of every minute fragment of this moment flashed through his thoughts with the clarity and certitude of ice.

He exhaled and relaxed.

Releasing the round and dropping the weapon back to the vertical; he took a deep breath and returned the gun to his assistant. Anthea lifted her phone and spoke several quiet words.

"Better," he murmured. "We can leave everything to the police and the relevant agencies now."

"What's better?" John was still uncertain what was going on. "What was all that about?"

"My brother is recovered, John," Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "And that was a test," he said, turning to his sibling. "Only one round?"

"I only needed one," Mycroft smiled, faintly.

"Admirable restraint," Sherlock grinned.

"I'm a better shot than you are, Brother," Mycroft grinned fleetingly in response. "Plus, his indirect gift, though undesirable, was not altogether bad," he added, reflectively. "I have been able to perceive a number of things of recent; things I might not have been able to observe without the temporary inhibition of my higher faculties," he paused. "For that, he may go to gaol."

"Gaol-time for giving you something you appreciated?" John was confused.

"Good-night, Doctor Watson," Mycroft smiled absently and turned on his heel towards the Jaguar.

Sherlock watched the handcuffed man being taken towards the far front gates. "Rather gaol than a nasty little accident no doubt involving the very toxins he littered so destructively across Cornwall," the younger Holmes was fatalistic. "Mycroft's going soft in his dotage."

Lowering the car's window, Mycroft looked out. "Thank you, as always, for your assistance in this matter, Sherlock. I am in your debt."

"Are you returning to Cornwall?" Sherlock was curious. "Not heading into the office to see what disasters have cropped up since you were last there?"

"Not tonight," Mycroft's smile was genuinely cheerful. "I'm on holiday."

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# **Almost the end** #

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The small beach echoed with the sound of the twins' laughter as they splashed in the sun-warmed pool. Every time one of them came within grabbing-distance, Cate slathered on another layer of waterproof sunscreen.

Returning to her laptop, she forced herself to focus on the problem that had been plaguing her since they had left London nearly three weeks before. It was now or never. If she couldn't find a way around this apparently insurmountable block, she had decided to dump all her ideas and start again. The publishers would simply have to wait.

Sitting on a newly-installed wooden-lounger, complete with a thick, towel-covered plastic mattress and umbrella, she was as comfortable as she could imagine, but still the structure of any design refused to coalesce. It was unbearably frustrating.

Heaving a deep sigh, Cate lifted her eyes away from her keyboard to look at the two figures standing at the water's edge; one tall with long legs and an aristocratic incline to his head, the other shorter, stockier around the shoulders. Both were in khaki shorts and light t-shirts, both had their bare feet in the shallow ripples of the water, both had their hands in their pockets. They were talking quietly.

Mycroft lifted his left arm and rested a hand on Tomas' shoulder, eliciting a turn of the boy's head and his quiet laugh.

Cate felt dizzy for a moment as her mind became a fountain.

From that single gesture at the water's edge, she felt an explosion of ideas catalyse her brain, as an entire novel, plotted, connected, written and complete, landed in her head; silent, but with the impact of a crashing asteroid.

She was giddy with the sense of it all, hardly daring to breathe. "Bloody hell," she laughed as the knowledge ran hot in her mind. With one careful finger, Cate typed the title of her next spy novel.

_The Apprentice_.

"Did you say something, my love?" Mycroft strolled back from the tide-edge, relaxing down into a second lounger beside her own.

"I've just chosen the name of my third child," she grinned madly as his eyebrows rose.

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**THE END**

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**NEW STORY COMING SOON … Mycroft Holmes: Tabula Rasa**

A romance. Accident, absence, amnesia and the Auvergne. The race to find a lost love.

A Cate and Mycroft story.

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Massive thanks to everyone who has felt the desire to read and review this story.

Your appreciation never ceases to thrill.

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